LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

Chap. Copyright No. 

^helLA^/f/y^ 

j^^^ 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 



Marianna and her Vision by the Fire 
From a drawing by the author 



HE HIDDEN 
SERVANTS 

and OTHER VERY OLD 
STORIES • Told Over 
Again by FRANCESCA ALEXANDER 

AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF IDA,^ 
''ROADSIDE SONGS OF TUSCANY/' Etc. 




It 



"BOSTOSK • LITTLE, BROWN, AND 
COMPANY .... iM'DCCCC 



39781 



Library of Oonarew* 

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AUG 28 1900 

CofyrfgM «ntry 

AUG 23 1900 

S£(V>NP COPY. 

Ot^'Weo*^ to 

OH&lr) DIVISION, 

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Copyright, 1900, 

By LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 



All Rights Reserved 



7ii^o 



University Press • John Wilson 
and Son • Cambridge, U.S.A. 



Introduction 



TO those who are fortunate enough to know 
Miss Alexander's pen and pencil pictures of 
Italian peasant life the very name of Francesca, 
over which her early work was published, car- 
ries with it an aroma as of those humbler graces 
of her adopted people, — their sunny charity, 
their native sense of the beautiful, their childlike 
faith, — which touch the heart more intimately 
than all their great achievements in History and 
in Art. For those, however, to whom are yet 
unknown her faithful transcripts in picture and 
story from the lives of the people she loves, a 
word of introduction has been asked ; and it was 
perhaps thought that the task might properly be 
entrusted to one who had heard The Hidden 
Servants and many another of these poems 
from the lips of Francesca herself. 

Yet, rightly considered, could any experience 
have better served to banish from the mind such 
irrelevant intruders as facts, — those literal facts 
and data at least which the uninitiated might be 
so mistaken as to desire, but which none who 



INTRODUCTION 



knew Francesca^s work could regard as of the 
slightest consequence ? 

Imagine a quiet, green-latticed room in Venice 
overlooking the Grand Canal whose waters 
keep time in gently audible lappings to the lilt 
of the verse, — that lilt that is apparent even in 
the printed line, but which only a voice trained 
to Italian cadences can perfectly give. Imagine 
that voice half chanting, half reciting, these old, 
old legends, and with an absolute sincerity of 
conviction which stirs the mind of the listeners, 
mere children of to-day though they be, to a 
faith akin to that which conceived the tales. 
Where is there place for facts in such a scene, 
in such an experience ? Or, if facts must be, 
arc not all that are requisite easily to be gleaned 
from the poems themselves? Why state that 
Francesca is the daughter of an American artist, 
^ ' or that she has spent her life in Italy, when the art- 
ist inheritance, the Italian atmosphere, breathes 
in every poem our little book contains ? Why 
make mention even of Ruskin^s enthusiastic 
^, heralding of her work, when the very spirit of 
it is so essentially that which the great idealist 



INTRODUCTION 



was seeking all his life that he could scarcely 
have failed to discover and applaud it had it been 
ever so retiring, ever so hidden ? Nor does it 
matter that the Alexander home chances to be in 
Florence rather than in Venice, since it is Italy 
itself that lives in Francesca's work ; nor that 
she is Protestant rather than Catholic, when it 
is religion pure and simple, unrestricted by any 
creed, that makes vital each line she writes or 
draws. 

Yet of the poems, if not of the writer, there 
remained still something to learn, and accord- 
ingly a letter of inquiry was sent her ; and her 
own reply, written with no thought of publica- 
tion, is a better report than another could give. 
This is what she says : — 

** With regard to this present collection of 
ballads, I can tell its history in a few words. 
When I was a young girl many old and curious 
books fell into my hands and became my favour- 
ite reading (next to the Bible, and, perhaps, the 
Divina Commedia)^ as I found in them the 
strong faith and simple modes of thought which 
were what I liked and wanted. Afterwards, in 



INTRODUCTION 



my constant intercourse with the country people, 
and especially with old people whom I always 
loved, I heard a great many legends and tra- 
ditions, often beautiful, often instructive, and 
which, as far as I knew, had never been written 
down. I was always in request with children 
for the stories which I knew and could tell, and, 
as I found they liked these legends, I thought it 
a pity they should be lost after I should have 
passed away, and so I always meant to write 
them down; all the more that I had felt the 
need of such reading when I was a child myself. 
But I never had time to write them as long as 
my eyes permitted me to work at my drawing, 
and afterwards, when I wanted to begin them, 
I found myself unable to write at all for more 
than a few minutes at once. Finally I thought 
of turning the stories into rhyme and learning 
them all by heart, so that I could write them 
down little by little. I thought children would 
not be very particular, if I could just make the 
dear old stories vivid and comprehensible, which 
I tried to do. If, as you kindly hope, they may 
be good for older people as well, then it must be 



INTRODUCTION 



that when the Lord took from me one faculty- 
He gave me another ; which is in no way im- 
possible. And I think of the beautiful Italian 
proverb : * When God shuts a door He opens a 
window/ ** 

After such an account of the origin and 
growth of these poems no further comment 
would seem fitting, unless it be that made by- 
Cardinal Manning when writing to Mr. Ruskin 
in 1883 to thank him for a copy of Francesca's 
Story of Ida. He writes : — 

"It is simply beautiful, like the Fioretti di San 
Francesco* Such flowers can grow in one soil 
alone. They can be found only in the Garden 
of Faith, over which the world of light hangs 
visibly, and is more intensely seen by the poor 
and the pure in heart than by the rich, or the 
learned, or the men of culture.'' 



ANNA FULLER. 



preface 



THE OLD STORY-TELLER 

/N my upper chamber here. 
Still I TVdit from year to year ; 
Wondering l^hen the time li>ill come 
That the Lord ti)ill call me home* 
All the rest have been removed* — 
Those I Jiyorked for* those I loved ; 
And, at times, there seems to be 
Little use on earth for me. 
Still God keeps me — He kno'ws l^hy — 
When so many younger die ! 

From my l^indoTV I look do'wn 
On the busy, bustling tcnvn. 
But beyond its noise and jar 
I can see the hills afar ; 
And above it, the blue sky. 
And the iPohite clouds sailing by ; 
And the sunbeams, as they shine 
On a tDorld that is not mine* 

Here iJ^ait, Ji?hile life shall last. 
An old relic of the past. 
Feeling strange, and far away 



PREFACE 

From the people of to-day ; 
Thankful for the memory dear 
Of a morning, ahvays near. 
Though long vanished, and so fair I 
Deivy flo'wers and April air ; 
Thankful that the storms of noon 
Spent their force and died so soon ; 
Thankful, as their echoes cease. 
For this ttvilight hour of peace. 

But my life, to evening groivn. 
Still has pleasures of its oivn. 
Up my stairway, long and steep, 
Novj and then the children creep ; 
Gather round me, ti>here I sit 
All day long, and dream, and knit ; 
Fill my room l:i>ith happy noise — 
May God bless them, girls and boys f 
Then siveet eyes upon me shine. 
Dimpled hands are laid in mine ; 
And I never ask them 7t>hy 
They have sought to climb so high ; 
For 'tivere useless to enquire I 
' Tis a story they desire. 



PREFACE 

Taken from my ancient store, 
None the 7i?orse if heard before ; 
And they turn, ti>ith pleading looks. 
To my shelf of time-l^orn books. 
Bound in parchment broivn yt>ith age. 
Little in them to engage 
Children s fancy, one "would say I 
Yetf lPt>hen tired li>ith noisy play. 
Nothing pleases them so yt>ell 
As the stories I can tell 
From those pages, old and gray. 
With their edges "t^om a^way ; 
Spelling queer, and 't^oodcut quaint. 
Angel, demon, prince, and saint. 
Much alike in face and air ; 
Houses tipping here and there. 
Lion, palm-tree, hermit's cell. 
And much more I need not telL 

Then they all attentive li>ait. 
While the story I relate. 
And, before the half is told, 
I forget that I am old ! 
But one age there seems to be 



PREFACE 

For the tittle ones and me. 

What though all be new and strange. 

Little children never change ; 

All is shifting day by day, — 

Worse or better, J^ho can say ? 

Much Jne lose, and much iPoe learn. 

But the children still return. 

As the flcm)ers do, every year ; 

Just as innocent and dear 

As those babes %)ho first did meet 

At our Heavenly Master' s feet. 

In His arms He took them all : 

Oh, 'tis precious to recall — 

Blessed to believe it true — 

That l:^hat t^e love He loved too ! 

Since the time ti>hen life Ji>as new. 
All my long, long journey through, 
I have story-teller been. 
When a child I did begin 
To my playmates ; later on. 
Other children, long since gone. 
Came to listen ; and of some. 
Still the children's children come I 



PREFACE 

Some, the dearest, took their flight. 
In the edrly morning light. 
To the glory far a'cvay. 
Made for them and such as they* 
I have lingered till the last; 
All the busy hours are past ; 
Now my sun is in the lt>est, 
Sloivly sinking down to rest 
Ere it ivholly fades from view. 
One thing only I 'would do : 
From my stories I 'would choose 
Those ' t 'would grieve me most to lose. 
And 'would tell them once again 
For the children 'who remain. 
And for others, yet to be. 
Whom on earth I may not see* 
Here, 'within this volume small, 
I have thought to 'write them all; 
And to-day the 'work commence. 
Trusting, ere God call me hence, 
I may see the 'whole complete* 
It 'will be a labour sweet. 
Calling back, in sunset glow, 
Happy hours of long ago* 



CONTENTS 

Introduction y 

Preface ^^ 

The Hidden Servants j 

The Bagf of Sand 35 

II G-ocifisso della Providcnza 49 

Angels in the Churchyard 53 

The Origfin of the Indian G)m 7j 

The Eldest Daughter of the King 89 

Bishop Troilus jOJ 

The Crosses on the Wall J33 

Suora Marianna J5j 

The Lupins jy^ 

The Silver Cross jgy 

The Tears of Repentance J99 



Che Didden Servants 

AND OTHER POEMS 

THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

A SHELTERED nook on a mountain side, 
Shut in, and guarded, and fortified 
By rocks that hardly a goat would climb, 
All smoothed by tempest and bleached by time — 
Such was the spot that the hermit chose, 
From youth to age, for his lifers repose. 
There had he lived for forty years, 
Trying, with penance and prayers and tears, 
To make his soul like a polished stone 
In God^s great temple ; for this alone 
Was the one dear wish that his soul possessed. 
And *t was little he cared for all the rest. 

Nothing had changed since first he came ; 
The sky and the mountain were all the same, 
Only a beech-tree, that there had grown 
Ere ever he builded his cell of stone. 
Had risen and spread to a stately grace. 
And its shifting shadow filled half the place. 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

Many a winter its storms had spent, 
Many a summer its sunshine lent 
To the little cell, till it came to look 
Like another rock in the peaceful nook. 
Mosses and lichen had veiled the wall, 
Till it hardly seemed like a dwelling at all. 

'T was a peaceful home when the days were 

soft, 
And spring in her sweetness crept aloft 
From the plains below where her work was 

done. 
And the hills grew green in the warming sun. 
And in summer the cell of the hermit seemed 
Like part of that heaven of which he dreamed : 
For the turf behind those walls of flint 
Was sprinkled with flowers of rainbow tint ; 
And never a sound but the bees' low hum, 
As over the blossoms they go and come ; 
Or — when one listened — the fainter tones 
Of a spring that bubbled between the stones. 

But dreary it was on a winter's night, 
When the snow fell heavy and soft and white. 

2 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

And at times, when the morn was cold and keen, 
The footprints of wolves at his door were seen. 
But cold or hunger he hardly felt, 
So near to heaven the good man dwelt ; 
And as for danger — why, death, to him. 
Meant only joining the Seraphim I 

Poorly he lived, and hardly fared ; 
And when the acorns and roots he shared 
With mole or squirrel, he asked no more, 
But thanked the Lord for such welcome store. 
The richest feast he could ever know 
Was when the shepherds who dwelt below. 
Whose sheep in the mountain pastures fed, 
Would bring him cheeses, or barley bread, 
Or — after harvest — a bag of meal ; 
And then they would all before him kneel, 
On flowery turf or on moss-grown rocks. 
To ask a blessing for them and their flocks. 

And once or twice he had wandered out 
To preach in the country round about. 
Where unto many his words were blest ; 
Then back he climbed to his quiet nest. 

3 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

By all in trouble his aid was sought ; 
And women their pining children brought, 
For a touch of his hand to ease their pain, 
And his prayers to make them strong again. 

And now one wish in his heart remained : 
! He longed to know what his soul had gained, 
And how he had grown in the Master's grace, 
Since first he came to that lonely place. 
This wish was haunting him night and day. 
He never could drive the thought away. 
Until at length in the beech-tree's shade 
He knelt, and with all his soul he prayed 
That God would grant him to know and see 
• A man, if such in the world might be, 
IWhose soul in the heavenly grace had grown 
To the self-same measure as his own; 
Whose treasure on the celestial shore 
Could neither be less than his nor more. 
He prayed with faith, and his prayer was 

heard ; 
He hardly came to the closing word 
Before he felt there was some one there ! 
He looked, and saw in the sun-lit air 

4 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

An angel, floating on wings of white ; 

Nor did he wonder at such a sight : 

For angels often had come to cheer 

His soul, and he thought them always 

near. 
Happy and humble, he bowed his head. 
And listened, while thus the angel said : 
** Go to the nearest town, and there. 
To-morrow, will be in the market square 
''"'^A mountebank, playing his tricks for show : 
He is the man thou hast prayed to know ; 
His soul, as seen by the light divine. 
Is neither better nor worse than thine. 
His treasure on the celestial shore 
Is neither less than thine own nor more.'' 

Next day, in the dim and early morn. 
By a slippery path that the sheep had worn. 
The hermit went from his loved abode 
To the farms below, and the beaten road. 
The reapers, out in the field that day. 
Who saw him passing, did often say. 
What a mournful look the old man had ! 
And his very voice was changed and sad. 



THE HE)DEN SERVANTS 

Troubled he was, and much perplexed ; 
With endless doubting his mind was vexed. 
What — He? A mountebank? Both the 

same? 
What could it mean to his soul but shame ? 
Had his forty years been vainly spent ? 
And then, alas I as he onward went, 
There came an evil and bitter thought, — 
Had he been serving the Lord for nought ? 
But in his fear he began to pray. 
And the black temptation passed away. 

Perhaps the mountebank yet might prove 
To have a soul in the Mastcr^s love. 
He almost felt that it must be so, 
In spite of a life that seemed so low. 
Perhaps he was forced such life to take. 
It might be, even for conscience' sake ; 
Some cruel master the order gave, 
Perhaps, for scorn of a pious slave. 
Or, stay — there were saints in ancient days, 
Who had sucli terror of human praise 
That, but to gain the contempt they prized. 
They did such things as are most despised ; 

6 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

Feigned even madness ; and more than one. 
Accused of sins he had never done, 
Had willingly borne disgrace and blame, 
Nor said a word for his own good name I 

In thoughts like these had the day gone by ; 
The sun was now in the western sky : 
The road, grown level and hot and wide, 
With dusty hedges on either side, 
Had led him close to the city gate. 
Where he must enter to learn his fate. 

Now fear did over his hope prevail : 
He almost wished in his search to fail. 
And find no mountebank there at all I 
For then his vision he well might call 
A dream that came of its own accord. 
Instead of a message from the Lord ! 
A few more minutes, and then he knew 
That all which the angel said was true I 

A mountebank, in the market square. 
Was making the people laugh and stare. 
With antics more befitting an ape 
Than any creature in human shape 1 

7 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

The hermit took his place with the rest, 

Not heeding the crowd that round him pressed, 

And earnestly set his eyes to scan 

The face of the poor, unsaintly man. 

Alas, there was little written there 

Of inward peace or of answered prayer I 

For all the paint, and the droll grimace, 

'T was a haggard, anxious, weary face. 

The mountebank saw, with vague surprise, 
The patient, sorrowful, searching eyes. 
Whose look, so solemn, and kindly too. 
Seemed piercing all his disguises through. 
They made him restless, he knew not why: 
He could not play ; it was vain to try I 
His face grew sober, his movements slow ; 
And, soon as might be, he closed the show* 

He saw that the hermit lingered on, 
When all the rest of the crowd were gone. 
Then over his gaudy clothes he drew 
A ragged mantle of faded hue ; 
And he himself was the first to speak : 
** Good Father, is it for me you seek ? ** 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

** My son, I have sought you all the day ; 
Would you come with me a little way. 
Into some quiet corner near. 
Where no one our words can overhear ? '' 

Not far away, in a lonely street. 
By a garden wall they found a seat. 
It now was late, and the sun had set, 
Though a golden glory lingered yet, 
And the moon looked pale in it overhead. 
They sat them down, and the hermit said 
** My son, to me was a vision sent. 
And as yet I know not what it meant ; 
But I think that you, and you alone. 
Are able to make its meaning known. 
Answer me then — I have great need — 
And tell me, what is the life you lead ? '* 

** My life *s a poor one, you may suppose I 
I Ve many troubles that no one knows ; 
For I have to keep a smiling face. 
I wander, friendless, from place to place. 
Risking my neck for a scanty gain ; 
But I must do it, and not complain. 

9 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

I know, whatever may go amiss, 

That I have deserved much worse than this/* 

To the hermit this a meaning bore 

Of deep humility, nothing more. ^ 

So, gaining courage, ** But this,'* he said, 

** Is not the life you have always led. 

So much the vision to me revealed; 

I know there *s something you keep concealed.** 

The mountebank answered sadly : ** Yes ! 
*T is true : you ask, and I must confess. 
But keep my secret, good Father, pray ; 
Or my life will not be safe for a day ! 
Alas, I have led a life of crime ! 
I *ve been an evil man in my time. 
u-^ was a robber — I think you know — 
Till little more than a year ago; 
One of a desperate, murderous band, 
A curse and terror to all the land ! ** 

The hermit's head sank down on his breast ; 
His trembling hands to his eyes he pressed. 

JO 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

** Has God rejected me ? ** then he moaned : 
** Are all my service and love disowned ? 
Have I been blind, and my soul deceived ? ** 

The other, seeing the old man grieved, 

Said : ** Father, why do you care so much 

For one not worthy your robe to touch ? 

The Lord is gracious, and if He will. 

He can forgive and save me still. 

And as for my wicked life, 't is I, 

Not you, who have reason to weep and sigh ! 

Your prayers may help me, and bring me peace/' 

The hermit made him a sign to cease ; 

Then raised his head, and began to speak, 

With tears on his wrinkled, sun-browned cheek. 

** If you could remember even one 

Good deed that you in your life have done, 

I need not go in despair away* 

Think well ; and if you can find one, say ! ** 

** Once,'* said the mountebank, " that was all, 

I did for the Lord a service small. 

And never yet have I told the tale I 

n 



THE HE)DEN SERVANTS 

But if you wish it, I will not fail. 

A few of our men had gone one day — 

'T was less for plunder, I think, than play .^- 

To a certain convent, small and poor, ^ 

Where a dozen sisters lived secure 

For very poverty I dreaming not 

That any envied their humble lot. 

There, finding the door was locked and barred, 

They climbed the wall of a grass-grown yard. 

Some vines were planted along its side, 

Their trailing branches left room to hide ; 

Where, neither by pity moved nor shame, 

They crouched, till one of the sisters came 

To gather herbs for the noonday meal ; 

Then out from under the leaves they steal I 

So she was taken, poor soul, and bound. 

And carried off to our camping ground. 

A harmless creature, who knew no more 

Of the world outside her convent door, 

Than you or I of the moon up there I 

A shame, to take her in such a snare I 

*' But, Father, I wished that I had been 
Ten miles away, when they brought her in, 

\2 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

To hold for ransom ; or if that failed — 
Oh, well, we knew when the pirates sailed ! 
We knew their captain, who paid us well, 
And carried our prisoners off to sell. 
They never beheld their country more. 
Being bought for slaves on a foreign shore. 

** But oh I 't was enough the tears to bring, 
To see that innocent, frightened thing. 
Looking, half hopeful, from face to face. 
As if she thought, in that wicked place. 
There might be one who would take her part ! 
She looked at me, and it stung my heart. 
But I, with a hard, disdainful air. 
Turned from her as one who did not care. 
I heard her sighing : she did not know 
That her gentle look had hurt me so I 

** That night they set me the watch to keep ; 
And when the others were all asleep. 
And I had been moving to and fro. 
With branches keeping the fire aglow, 
I crept along to the woman's side, — 
She sat apart, and her arms were tied, — 

J3 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

And said, — 't was only a whispered word ; 
We both were lost if the others heard, — 
'If you will trust me and with me come, 
I '11 bring you safe to your convent home/ 
She started, into my face she gazed ; 
Said she, Til trust you — the Lord be 
praised I * 

" I very quickly the cords unbound. 

She rose ; I led her without a sound 

Between the rows of the sleeping men. 

Till we left the camp behind ; and then 

I found my horse, that was tied near by. 

The woman mounted, and she and I 

Set off in haste, through the midnight shade. 

On the wildest journey I ever made I 

By wood and thicket the horse I led, 

And over a torrent's stony bed, — 

For along the road I dared not go. 

For fear that the others our flight should know, 

And follow after ; the woman prayed. 

I, quick and cautious, but not afraid. 

Went first, with the stars for guide, until 

We saw the convent, high on a hill. 



11 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

We reached the door as the east grew red. 

* God will remember I ' was all she said ; 

Her face was full of a sweet content. 

She knocked, they opened, and in she went. 

The door was closed — she was safe at last I 

I heard the bolt as they made it fast — 

And I in the twilight stood alone, 

With the lightest heart I had ever known I 

** So, Father, my robber days were o'er ; 
I could not be what I was before. 
I wandered on with a thankful mind, 
For I left the old bad life behind. 
And tried, as I journeyed day by day. 
To gain my bread in an honest way. 
But little work could I find to do ; 
And so, as some juggling tricks I knew, 
I took this business which now you see : 
*T is good enough for a man like me I " 

While yet the story was going on, 
The cloud from the hermit's face had gone ; 
And if his eyes in the moonlight shone. 
They glistened with thankful tears alone. 

J5 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

He listened in solemn awe until 
The mountebank^s tale was done ; and still, 
Some moments, he neither spoke nor stirred, 
But silently pondered every word. 

Then humbly speaking, ** The Lord,'' said he, 

** Has had great mercy on you and me I 

And now, my son, I must tell you why 

I came to speak with you — know that I 

Have tried with the Lord alone to dwell, 

For forty years, in my mountain cell ; 

In prayer and solitude, day and night. 

Have striven to keep my candle bright I 

And there, but yesterday, while I prayed, 

An angel came to my side, and said 

That I should seek you, — and told me 

where, — 

And should your life with my own compare; 

For in God's service and love and grace 

Your soul with mine has an equal place, 

We both alike have his mercy shared. 

The same reward is for both prepared. 

I came; I sought you — and you know how 

I found you out in the square just now I 

t6 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

At which — may the Lord forgive my pride I — 
At first I was poorly satisfied. 
But now I have heard your story through — 
What you in a single night could do I — 
And know that this to the Lord appears 
Worth all my service of forty years ; 
I can but wonder, and thank His grace 
Which raised us both to an equal place/* 

** But, Father, it never can be true I 

What ? — I by the side of a saint like you ? 

Ah no I You never to me were sent. 

'T was some one else whom the angel meant I *' 

** No I Listen to me — *T was yoUf my son I 

Our Master said that a service done 

To a child of His in time of need 

Is done to Himself in very deed, 

And is with love by Himself received I 

So do not think I have been deceived. 

But keep those words on your heart engraved 

Of the humble woman whose life you saved, 

God ivill remember, and trust His care. 

He will not forget you here nor there 1 " 

2 17 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

'* O Father, Father ! And can it be 
That the Lord in heaven remembers me ? 
And yet I had felt it must be true, 
For the woman spoke as if she knew ! 
But when was ever such mercy shown. 
And is this the love He bears His own ? 
Are these the blessings He holds in store ? 
Oh, let me serve Him for evermore ! ^* 

And when, at the close of another day, 

The hermit wearily made his way 

Up the mountain path, from stone to stone^. 

He did not climb to his cell alone. 

The mountebank, still with wondering face. 

Came with him up to that peaceful place ! 

Together with thankful hearts they went, 
V Thenceforth together their lives were spent. 
And, ere the summer had reached its close, 
Another cell from the rocks arose ; 
The beech, in its strong and stately growth. 
Spread one green canopy over both. 
On summer evenings, when shepherds guide 
Their flocks to rest on the mountain side, 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

They heard above, in the twilight calm, 
Two voices, chanting the evening psalm ; 
And one was aged, and one was young, 
But never was hymn more sweetly sung I 

In love and patience, by deed and word. 

They helped each other to serve the Lord, — 

Together to pray, to learn, to teach, — 

Till a deeper blessing fell on eacL 

Their souls grew upward from day to day ; 

But he who farthest had gone astray. 

Who, lowest fallen, had hardest striven. 

Who most had sinned and been most forgiven, 

Erelong in the heavenly race outran 

The older, milder, and wiser man. 

Two years he dwelt with his aged friend, 

Then made a blessed and peaceful end ; 

And, when his penitent life was done. 

The hermit wept as he would for a son ! 

Ten years had over the mountain passed, 
Since that poor mountebank breathed his last, 
Helped, to the end, by a woman's prayer. 
Ten years ; and the hermit still was there. 

J9 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

Grown older, thinner, with shoulders bent. 

He seldom forth from his shelter went. 

But those he had helped in former days 

With prayers and counsel, in thousand ways. 

Were mindful of him, and brought him all 

He needed now, for his wants were small. 

And happy they were their best to give. 

If only their mountain saint would live ! 

For in his living their lives were blest ; 

And if he longed for the perfect rest. 

Patient he was, and content to wait. 

While God should please, at the heavenly 

gate. 
Beautiful now his face had grown. 
But the beauty was something not his own, — 
A solemn light from the blessed land 
Within whose border he soon must stand. 
Little he said, but his every word 
Was saved and treasured by those who heard. 
To be a blessing in years to come. 
When he should be theirs no more; and 

some 
Who brought their little to help his need. 
Went home with their souls enriched indeed ! 

20 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

One autumn morning he sat alone. 
Outside his cell ; and the warm sun shone 
With a friendly light on his silver hair, 
Through the branches, smooth and almost 

bare, 
Of the beech-tree, now, like him, grown old* 
The night before had been sharp and cold ; 
And the frost was white on leaf and stem 
Wherever the rocks still shaded them, 
But where the sunbeams had found their way. 
In glittering, crystal drops it lay ; 
And fallen leaves at his feet were strewn. 
Yellow and wet, over turf and stone. 

He sat and dreamed, as the aged do. 
While, drifting backward, he lived anew 
The years that never again should be. 
A placid dream — for his soul was free 
From all the troubles of long ago. 
The doubts, the conflict he used to know I 
Doubts of himself, and a contest grim 
With evil spirits that strove for him. 
Now all was over ; that troubled day 
Was like a storm that had passed away, 

2) 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

It seemed to him that his voyage was o*er ; 
His ship already had touched the shore. 
Yet once he sighed ; for he knew that he 
Was not the man he had hoped to be, 
Andt looking back on his journey past, 
He felt — what all of us feel at last I 
And his soul was moved to pray once more 
The prayer he had made twelve years before, 
Only to know, before he died. 
If he were worthy to stand beside 
One of God's children, or great or small, 
Who served Him truly ; and that was all ! 

It was not long ere the angel came. 
Who, gently calling the saint by name. 
Said : ** Come, for thou hast not far to go. 
One step, and I to thine eyes will show 
J , The very dwelling that shelters now 
f\ Two souls as near to the Lord as thou ! ** 

The hermit rose ; and with reverent tread 
He followed on as the angel led. 
Where a single cleft the rocks between 
Gave passage out of the valley green 

22 



THE MDDEN SERVANTS 

They passed, and stcx)d in the pathway steep : 
The rocks about them were sunken deep 
In fern, and bramble, and purple heath. 
That sloped away to the woods beneath ; 
While far below, and on every side, 
Were endless mountains, and forests wide, 
And scattered villages here and there. 
That all looked near in the clear, dry air. 
And here a church, with its belfry tall ; 
And there a convent, whose massive wall 
Rose grave and stately above the trees. 
The hermit willingly looked at these ; 
For hope they gave him that now, at least, 
Some praying brother or toiling priest 
Might be his mate ; but it was not so ! 
The angel showed him, away below, 
A slope where a little mountain-farm 
Lay, all spread out in the sunshine warm. 
Along the side of a wooded hill. 
It looked so peaceful and far and still ! 
And when his eye on the farmhouse fell, 
The angel said : ** It is there they dwell ! 
Two women in heart and soul like thee. 
Go, find them. Brother, and thou shalt see 

23 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

All that thou art in their lives displayed/* 
Before the hermit an answer made, 
The angel back to the skies had flown ; 
He stood in the rocky path alone. 

Along the broken and winding way 
Between the heath and the boulders gray ; 
Through lonely pastures that led him down 
To oaken woods in their autumn brown ; 
And o'er the stones of a rippling stream, 
The hermit passed, like one in a dream ! 
As though the vision had made him strong : 
He hardly knew that the way was long. 

*Twas almost noon when he came in sight 

Of the little farmhouse, low and white : 

A sheltered lane by the orchard led, 

Where mountain ash, with its berries red, 

Rose high above him ; and brambles, grown 

All over the rough, low wall of stone. 

And tangled brier with thorny spray. 

And feathered clematis, edged the way. 

Then, turning shortly, a view he caught 

Of both the women for whom he sought. 

24 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

HOne, spinning, sat by the open door ; 
Her spindle danced on the worn stone floor. 

/ The other, just from the forest come, 
Had brought a bundle of branches home, 
And spread them now in the sun to dry ; 
But both looked up as the saint drew nigh. 
Then, on a sudden, the spindle stopped. 
The branches all on the grass were dropped. 
He heard them joyfully both exclaim, 
"The Saint! The hermit! " And forth they came 
To bid him welcome, and made request 
That he would enter their house to rest. 

But when a blessing they both implored. 
He had not courage to speak the word. 
The only blessing his lips let fall 
Was this : " May the good Lord bless us all, 
And keep our hearts in His peace divine I ** 
With hand uplifted, he made the sign. 
Then entered in (to their joy complete I) 
And willingly took the offered seat. 

And soon before him a meal was spread. 

Of chestnuts, of goat^s milk cheese, and bread ; 

25 



THE HDDDEN SERVANTS 

While one with her pitcher went to bring 
Some water fresh from the ice-cold spring. 

He could not taste of the food prepared 
Till he his errand to both declared. 
Said he : ** My friends, I have come to-day 
With something grave on my mind to say, 
And more to hear ; and I pray you now 
To answer truly, and not allow 
A feeling, whether of pride or shame, 
Or any shrinking from praise or blame. 
To change the answer you both may give, 
Of what you are and of how you live.'* 

Then she with distaff still at her side, 
Of speech more ready, at once replied. 
In years the elder, but not in face. 
She kept a little of youthful grace : 
The dark eyes under her snow-white hair 
Were keen and clear as the autumn air I 

** We are but what we appear to be: 
Two toiling women, as you may see I 
And neither so young nor strong as when 

26 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

In field and forest we helped the men. 

We now have only the lesser care, 

To keep the house, and the meals prepare, 

And other labours of small account, 

Yet something worth in the week's amount. 

But in our youth, and a lifetime through, 

We laboured, much as the others do ! 

Through storm and sunshine we still have 

tried 
To do our best by our husbands* side. 
And keep their hearts and our own at rest 
When sickness came or when want oppressed. 
For even famine our house assailed 
That year when the corn and chestnuts failed. 
And once — that winter ten years ago — 
Our house was buried beneath the snow. 
And ere it melted and light returned. 
The very benches for warmth we burned! 
Nor is there want, in our busy hive. 
Of children keeping the house alive : 
For she has seven, and I have nine ; 
But three of hers and the first of mine 
Are safe with Jesus, — more happy they ! 
Two more have married and gone away. 

27 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

My son's young wife, with her infant small, 
Make up the household — fourteen in all" 

** In this/' he said, ** there is much to praise : 

In humble service you pass your days, 

And spend your life for your children's needs. 

But tell me now of the pious deeds 

(For such there are) that you seek to hide. 

To me in a vision signified ! " 

** But, sir, we are fust two poor old wives, 
Who never have done in all our lives 
A pious deed that was worth the name I " 
She said; and her white head drooped with 
shame. 

Then said the other : ** And yet, 't is true, 
We help in all that our husbands do. 
When twice a year they have killed a sheep, 
nr is only half for ourselves we keep; 
Our poorer neighbours have all the rest. 
And this, I fear, is the very best 
We ever do I " '* And," said he, '' 't is well ! 
But think — is there nothing more to tell ? " 

28 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

They both were silent a little space, 
And each one questioned the other's face. 
Till, doubtful, when she had thought awhile. 
The elder said, with a modest smile : 
" This summer have forty years gone by, 
Since she — my sister-in-law — and I 
Together came in this house to dwell ; 
And, Father, it is not much to tell. 
But in all these years, from first to last, 
No angry word has between us passed. 
Nor even a look that was less than kind. 
And that is all I can call to mind/* 

Enough it was for the hermit's need I 
He rose, like one from a burden freed. 
** Thank God I '' he said ; " if indeed He sees 
[y soul as worthy and white as these I 
id great the mercy He doth bestow. 
That I should His hidden servants know I ** 

A sudden flash, as of heavenly light. 
Then shone within him, and all was bright ; 
And in a moment were things made clear 
Had vexed him many a weary year I 

29 



THE ffiDDEN SERVANTS 

For hcf who had thought on earth to view 
God^s people only a scattered few, 
Saw now, in spirit, an army great 
Of hidden servants who on Him wait. 
No saintly legends their names disclose. 
And no man living their number knows, 
Nor can their service and place declare. 
The hidden servants are everywhere I 
And some are hated, despised, alone ; 
And some to even themselves unknown. 
But the Father^s house has room for all. 
And never one from His hand can fall ! 
The one brave deed of a desperate man. 
Grown hard in crime since his youth began. 
Who yet, for a helpless woman's sake, 
Had strength to rise, and his chain to break ; 
The holy sweetness that fills the heart 
Of him who dwells from the world apart, 
His life one dream of celestial things. 
Till almost heaven to earth he brings ; 
Or yet the humble, unnoticed life 
Of toiling mother and patient wife. 
Who, year on year, has had grace to bear 
Her changeless burden of daily care, — 

30 



THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 

Arc all accepted with equal love, 
And laid with treasures that wait above 
Until the day when we all believe 
That every man shall his deeds receive. 

And when, that evening, with weary feet 
The hermit stood by his lone retreat. 
And watched awhile, with a tranquil gaze. 
The mountains soft in the sunset haze, 
And sleeping forest, and field below, 
He said, as he saw the star-like glow 
Of lights in the cottage windows far, 
" How many God's hidden servants are I '' 



3{ 



Zhc Bag of Sand 



33 



THE BAG OF SAND was written by St. Her adias, 
who visited, some time in the fifth century, the her- 
mit fathers of the desert and mountains, and collected 
many interesting stories about them. 



34 



Che Bag of Sand 



TN that land of desolation 
-'■ Where, mid dangers manifold. 
Lost in hea'venly contemplation. 
Desert fathers diuelt of old. 

Lay a field Inhere grass ^as growing 
Green beneath the palm-trees' shade; 
And a spring, forever flomjing. 
Life amid the stillness made. 

There a brotherhood, incited 
'By one hope and purpose high. 
Came to dioelt in faith united, 
'Pray and labour, live and die, 

cMighty li^as the love that bound them. 
Each to each, in thai %ild land. 
Where the desert closed around them. 
One dead Jfaste of rocks and sand. 

Saving Ipfhere, to rest their eyes on. 
While they dreamed of hills divine, 
'Slue, above the lovj horizon. 
Stretched the mountains' ')t>avy line, 
35 



THE BAG OF SAND 



There could nought of earth remind them, 
cHpr disturb their dreams and prayers; 
They had left the "world behind them. 
Felt no more its joys and cares. 

Far from all its l»eary bustle. 
Will subdued, and mind at ease. 
They could hear the palm-trees rustle 
In the early morning breeze. 

When the bell, to prayer inviting. 
From the lo<iv-built belfry rang. 
They could hear the birds uniting 
With them 'k>hile the psalms they sang. 

From the earth their labour brought them 
All they needed — scanty fare. 
Life of toil and hardship taught them. 
Though at peace, the cross to bear. 

This is all their record: never 
Can fife hope the rest to knom)l 
cNiames and deeds are lost forever. 
In the mist of long ago; 

<And of all that life angelic 
c^either shadow left, nor trace. 
Save this tale, — a precious relic. 
In its %ise and saintly grace I 
36 



THE BAG OF SAND 



This, above the darkness lifted 
'By the truth that in it lay. 
On the sea of time has drifted, 
cAnd is still our otun to-day* 

Listen to it, it may teach as 
Wisdom, %ith its l»ords of gold I 
Let this far-off blessing reach as 
From the desert saints of old. 



UNDERNEATH the vines they tended, 
Where the garden air was sweet, 
Where the shadows, softly blended. 
Made an ever cool retreat, — 

These good brethren had assembled. 
On their abbot to attend ; 
All were sad, and many trembled. 
Thinking how the day would end. 

Of their little congregation 
One who long had faithful been. 
Had, beneath a sore temptation, 
Fallen into grievous sin. 

37 



THE BAG OF SAND 



What it was they have not told us, 
But we know, whatever the blame, 
K God^s hand should cease to hold us, 
You or I might do the same. 

And for judgment's wise completing 
(Now the crime was certified ), 
All were called in solemn meeting 
On the sentence to decide. 

Much in doubt, they craved assistance, 
Sent to convents far away. 
Even to that fair blue distance 
Where their eyes had loved to stray. 

Fathers learned, fathers saintly. 
Abbots used to think and rule. 
Gathered where the brook sang faintly 
In the shadow, green and cool. 

Oh the beauty that was wasted 
On that day, remembered oft I 
Oh the sweetness, all untasted, 
Of the morning, still and soft ! 

38 



THE BAG OF SAND 



At their feet the water glistened, 
Birds were nesting overhead ; 
No one saw, and no one listened 
Save to what the speakers said. 

Long and sad was their debating, 
Voices low and faces grave. 
While, the gloomy tale relating. 
Each in turn his judgment gave. 

** Send him from you ! ** one was saying 

Calmly, as of reason sure ; 

** All are tainted by his staying. 

Let men know your hands are pure ! 

"For the shame and sorrow brought you. 
Let him be to all as dead ! 
Harm sufficient has he wrought you ! ** 
But the abbot shook his head. 

For the sin which had undone him, 
For much evil brought about. 
He would lay a burden on him. 
But he could not cast him out ! 

39 



THE BAG OF SAND 



All night long the distant howling. 
While he waked, of beasts of prey, 
Made him think of demons prowling, 
Come to snatch that soul away. 

Said another : ** I would rather 
That his shame by all were seen. 
Do not spare him, O my Father ; 
Let the blow be swift and keen ! 

** Let not justice be evaded I 
Keep him, bound to labour hard, 
With you, but apart degraded, 
And from speech with all debarred I ** 

This the abbot not refusing. 
Only wondered, while he thought. 
Was there no one feared the losing 
Of a soul the Lord had bought ? 

One, more thoughtless, recommended 
That in prison closely pent 
He should stay till life was ended I 
But to this would none consent. 

40 



THE BAG OF SAND 



In the cell where first they closed him, 
Shrinking back, as best he might, 
From a window that exposed him 
Sometimes to a passer's sight, 

He, the black offender, waited. 
From them parted since his fall : 
Once beloved, now scorned and hated 
By himself, he thought by all I 

Nothing asking, nothing pleading. 
Speechless, tearless, in despair ; 
But, like one in pain exceeding. 
Moving ever here and there. 

Little did his fate alarm him : 
What had he to fear or shun ? 
What could others do to harm him 
More than he himself had done ? 

But without were minds divided. 
And the morning wore away ; 
Noon had come, and undecided 
Still the heavy question lay. 

4J 



THE BAG OF SAND 



Though they looked so stern and fearless, 
Some with sinking hearts had come, — 
Hearts that wept when eyes were tearless, 
Pleaded when the lips were dumb. 

One who had that morning seen him. 
Seeking from their gaze to hide. 
Tried from heavy doom to screen him ; 
But his reasons were denied. 

He of other days was thinking, — 
Happy days, and still so near I — 
When that brother, shamed and shrinking, 
Had to all their souls been dear. 

Others tried their hearts to harden, 
Felt their pity to be sin ; 
Silent, prayed the Lord to pardon 
Kinder thoughts that rose within. 

Some proposed and some objected. 
While, the long debate to end. 
One old Father they expected, 
And on him would all depend. 

42 



THE BAG OF SAND 



He — their honoured, best adviser — 
Ehvelt in desert cave retired ; 
Older than the rest, and wiser : 
Many thought his words inspired ; 

Said he knew what passed within them 
When by sin or doubt assailed ; 
True it is, his words could win them, 
Often, when all else had failed. 

He would find what all were seeking. 
Justice pure, and judgment right I 
Still the abbot, seldom speaking. 
Pale and sober, prayed for light. 

Light was sent ! For, toiling slowly 
OVr the sun-baked desert road. 
Came that Father, wise and holy. 
Bent beneath a weary load 1 

Scarce his failing limbs sustained him, 
For the burden sorely pressed : 
Many times, as though it pained him, 
Would he stand to breathe and rest. 

43 



THE BAG OF SAND 



One who watched for his arriving, 
Went and told them he was near. 
Up they rose, and ceased their striving, 
In their joy such news to hear I 

Then they all went forth and met him, 
By their reverent love compelled : 
Nevermore could one forget him, 
Who that day his face beheld I 

Wasted, worn, yet strong to aid them ; 
Peaceful, though by conflict tried ; 
Shining with a light that made them 
Feel the Lord was by his side! 

But it grieved their souls to sec him 
By that burden bowed and strained I 
Many stretched their hands to free him. 
Wondering what the sack contained, 

** Why this burden ? " one addressed him ; 
** All unfit for arms like thine ! " 
He, while yet the weight oppressed him. 
Answered : ** These are sins of mine. 

44 



THE BAG OF SAND 



** I must bear them all, my brother, 
Ever with me while I go 
On my way to judge another I 
These have made my journey slow." 

Then the abbot, growing bolder, 
Raised the load with trembling hand 
From the Father's bended shoulder ; 
Looked — and found it filled with sand. 

Of them all, there was not any , 
But was silent for a while ; 
For the best had sins as many 
As the sand-grains in that pile I 

Then they heard the abbot saying, 
** God alone must judge us all I *' 
And a burden, heavy weighing. 
Seemed from every heart to fall. 

Awed and hushed, but no more keeping 
Pity crushed, or love restrained. 
Some were smiling, some were weeping ; 
Of their striving what remained ? 

45 



THE BAG OF SAND 



Many bowed in veneration ; 
Others all in haste to go 
With a word of consolation 
To their brother fallen low. 

Hope they brought, and gentler feeling, 
To his torn, despairing breast. 
And that evening found him kneeling 
In the chapel with the rest. 

None arose to judge or sentence : 
He whose sin they most deplored. 
In his long and sad repentance, 
Was with charity restored. 



46 



11 Crocifisso della providcnza 



47 



THE cfudffz ahoist which this story is told is still 
to be seen in the church of the Carmine, where it 
is kept in the G>rsinf chapel; and it is always shown to 
the public on the first of May, when also (as the bal- 
lad relates) a festa is held in the house once occupied by 
the three sisters, in the Via dclV Orto. 

The house seems to have been little chang^ed since 
they lived there; it now bears the number tO, and is 
easily recognized by a niche in the wall, containing a 
representation of the crucifix, and the chest piled with 
loaves. 

From time immemorial, a lamp burns every night 
before this little shrine : the oil is provided by the poor 
women of the vicinity (and they are very poor indeed) , 
each one laying by a few ceniesimi every week for the 
purpose* 



48 



II Crocif 1890 dcUa 



THE streets of Florence are fair to see, 
With palace and church and tower. 
And there the mighty of earth have dwelt, 
And the whole world feels their power. 

And many come from the East and West 
To gaze on its beauty rare ; 
To stand where the wise and great have stood, 
For their presence is ever there. 

But they never think of the narrow streets 
Where the poor of the city dwell ; 
Those humble houses, so bare and plain, 
Have tales of their own to tell. 

There *s one by the San Frediano gate. 
Not far from the city wall ; 
Some Latin words on its front engraved 
The memory still recall 

4 49 



IL CROCIFISSO DELLA PROVIDENZA 

Of one, a beggar, to all unknown, 
Who knocked at the door one day ; 
Of what a blessing he left behind 
That morn when he went his way. 

It happened hundreds of years ago, 
But they tell the story still ; 
So listen now to the legend old. 
And smile at it if you will. 

But if you smile, be it not in scorn ; 
The tale which I now relate 
Has lightened many a heavy heart 
By the San Frediano gate. 

Long since, they say, in that ancient house 
There were orphan maidens three. 
And in the chamber above the door. 
Whose window you still may see, 

They worked and prayed, by the world unseen ; 
And ever, the long day through. 
The needles stitched, and the spindle twirled. 
And the knitted garment grew. 

50 



IL CROCIFISSO DELLA PROVIDENZA 

So young, and one of them yet a child, 
With never an earthly friend ; 
They prayed each day for the daily bread 
Which they knew the Lord would send. 

And toiling cheerfully, lived content. 
Nor ever of want complained. 
But freely shared with the needy poor 
The little their labour gained. 

But evil days to the sisters came, 
And their faith was sorely tried : 
A merchant, one of the first in town, 
That winter had failed and died. 

And many debts had he left behind. 
And their work was all unpaid ; 
For he it was who had bought and sold 
The delicate wares they made. 

They prayed for help, and they sought for work ; 
But awhile they sought in vain. 
They pledged the ring that their father wore, 
And their mother's golden chain. 

5J 



IL CROCmSSO DELLA PROVIDENZA 

Then work they found, but for neighbours poor, 
And some of them could not pay ; 
'T was well for them that the spring began, 
And the cold had passed away. 

And one by one, as the days went on> 
Were the household treasures sold, — 
The copper pitcher, the brazen lamp. 
And the nut-wood table old. 

The pot of pinks from the window-sill — 
But when they had sold them all. 
An ancient crucifix, carved in wood. 
Still hung on the whitewashed wall 

Above the chest where the loaves were kept ; 
Such blessing its presence shed. 
It seemed to them like a living friend, 
And not like an image dead I 

In all their troubles, in all their joys. 
That crucifix bore a part ; 
Above all comfort, or wealth, or gain, 
*T was dear to the sisters* heart ! 

52 



IL CROCIFISSO DELLA PROVIDENZA 

As babes, before they could understand, 
Or ever a prayer repeat. 
Each day their father had held them up, 
While they kissed the carven feet. 

So April came, and so April went ; 
And they lived, the Lord knows how ! 
The elder sister had saved and spared, 
But the chest was empty now. 

That very evening she broke in halves. 
And gave to the younger two. 
One piece of bread — *t was the last they had ; 
There was nothing more to do. 

Unless, unless — and she looked at them. 
And then at the image dear :. 
She touched it once ; but her hand drew back 
With a guilty, shrinking fear. 

Her sisters saw, and they started up. 
And they said in haste, ** Not so I 
Take back the bread, if there be no more ; 
The crucifix must not go I '' 

53 



IL CROOFISSO DELLA PROMDENZA 

And she t>.vk couraj^c. M\d k\<^cd thcni KmH. 
Atid snulcvi, thovj^h her eves were wet ; 
Then kx^ked .i^.iiti at the t.ue lv\n eJ. 
An.i s.Uvi, " He will help us vet I " 

Tliev rv>sc ne-\t vliv with the e.irlv d^wn. 
And their hearts wert.* alnu\st Uj^ht! 
The youi\^ need Uttk* to twake them j;lad. 
And the wiav was fair at-'.d bright. 

Arid p.leas.vnt 't is to behold the sun, 
Thouv^h his rv>sv-tirited rav 
Couki otilv s.hine ori the niv^i^s-v^rv^WTi tiles 
Oi the rvvf acro&s the \v.i>% 

And the air was sweet in the narrx^w street 
X^licrc the swalknvs to^s and v^Ude ; 
For a ^vrtunie eatne on the morniriv: bree:e 
Frv^tn the hills on every side, — 

A perKmie fairit frv^tn the wwxis afar» 
From b'.^ssv^.'.nri); fields ot eorti ; 
And Mis alreadv their chunes K*v:an, 
For this was a s.\ered morn. 

>4 



IL CROCIFISSO ORLLA PROVTDKNZA 

Tlic Cirminc church is near »it hand, 
At\d the sisters thither hied; 
'T was there they had kticlt in happy days 
By the dear dead mother's side. 

Then home, throvjj>h the v^ay and festive street. 
Fill they reached tlie chamber bare : 
The time had come for the morning meal, 
And alas, no bread was there I 

The elder v^irl on her sisters looked, 
And her face grew white with p^iin. 
Then s*iid the one who was next in age, 
" Let us ask the Lord again I " 

So dowTi they knelt on the red-tiled floor. 
And the elder Knv'ed her head, 
And s.iid aloud, while the others joined, 
The prayer for their daily bread. 

And then, with a tempest in her heart 
That she could no more withstand, 
With her arm around the younger girl, 
And the other by the hand, 

55 



iL CRoansso della providenza 

She pleaded, raising her tearful face 
To the dying face above. 
For those she loved in their helpless state 
With more than a sister's love« 

** O blessed Jesus ! O Lord diN'ine ! 
Have pity, we wait for Thee ! 
Look down — Thou seest our empty chest, 
Thou knowest how poor we be ! 

'* Oh, send some bread to my sisters dear, 
For the cornfields all are Thine I 
I *d rather lie in my grave to-day 
Than to see these children pine ! 

** Thou knowest. Lord, I have done my best ; 
But my hands hav^ failed at length : 
A mother's burden is on me laid 
With only a maiden's strength. 

*' Come, help me ! Look at these orphan girls ! 
Oh, save them from want and woe ! — '* 
Her praying ceased, for they heard a sound, 
A knock at the door below. 

5^ 



iL CRoansso della provtoenza 

They rose, and all to the window went : 
A beggar was at the door, 
A poor, pale stranger, with staff in hand. 
Who had never come before. 

The Month of Mary was coming in; 
And many were on their way 
To ask for alms in the Virgin's name 
On that beautiful first of May. 

*' My little sisters/' the beggar said, 
(And bowed to the maidens three,) 
*' I pray you spare from your table spread 
A morsel of bread for me ! 

" I come from far, and I Ve far to go ; 
And I Ve eaten nought to-day ! " 
The elder wept, but she answered not ; 
And the second turned away. 

The younger looked with her innocent eyes 
In the beggar's pleading face : 
** And if we could, we would give you food ; 
But we 're in as hard a case I 

57 



IL CROCmSSO DELLA PROVE)ENZA 

** We finished yesterday all we had — 
The half of a loaf, no more 1 — 
We just were asking the Lord for bread, 
When we heard you at the door/* 

** Go, look in the chest, my little maid ; 
You 11 find there is bread to spare ! ** 
** Alas, we have looked so many times, 
And never a crust is there ! ** 

** Look once again, for the love of Him 
Whose image I see within : 
He never has failed to help His own. 
And He will not now begin," 

So only lest it should seem unkind 
To refuse the small request. 
The elder girl with a patient smile 
Went back to the empty chest. 

She looked — and down on her knees she fell. 
With a cry of glad surprise : 
The others turned, and their breath stood still, 
They could scarce believe their eyes I 

58 



IL CROOFISSO DELLA PROVIDENZA 

'T was full I And the loaves were piled so high 
They could close the lid no more. 
Their tears fell faster for joy that day 
Than they fell for grief before I 

But in the midst of their thankful praise 
They thought of the starving man: 
The little one seized the topmost loaf, 
And back to the window ran. 

She looked, she called him — he was not there ! 
They sought him, but all in vain: 
He passed away from their sight that day, 
And he came no more again. 

So ends the story ; but ever since^ 
That crucifix bears the name // 
La Providenza ; and even now f 
The house has a sacred fame. 

And many kneel where the sisters knelt 
Each year on the first of May ; j 

And the floor is all bestrewn with flowers, ^' 
And leaves of the scented bay. 

59 



IL CROCinSSO DELLA PROVIDENZA 

The humble room is with roses decked. 
And bright with the candles' glow; 
And smoke of incense, and sound of psalm, 
Float over the street below. 

A woman aged and silver-haired 
Once told me, with solemn thrill, 
How she herself had beheld the chest. 
Which stands in the chamber still. 

I asked her : ** Who was that beggarman ? 
An angel, do you suppose ? 
A saint from heaven ? " Her face grew grave. 
And she answered me, " Who knows ? '* 

And then, with voice to a whisper dropped, 

With an awed, mysterious air, 

'' Some think," she said, ** 't was the Lord 

Himself 
Who came at the maiden's prayer.'* 



60 



Hngcls in tbc Cburcbprd 



6} 



THE story of the ** Angels in the Churchyard^ was 
told me by Signore Bortolo Zanchetta of Bassano^ 
who said that he read it in an old book, bot he had 
lost the book, and could not even remember its name« 



62 



Hngcls 

in tbc Churchyard 



A SAINT there was, long time ago, 
And all in vain I tried 
His name to learn, or whence he came, 
Or how or where he died. 

For he from whom the tale I heard 
Gjuld tell me nothing more 
Save only that within him dwelt 
Of love an endless store. 

And in the churchyard once he passed 
A summer night in prayer, 
For pity of the nameless dead 
Who lie forgotten there. 

He knew not when the sun went down. 
So earnestly he prayed I 
He knew not when the twilight glow 
Was lost in deepening shade. 

63 



ANGELS IN THE CHURCHYARD 



And when the fair, round mcx)n arose 
Behind the wooded hill. 
She looked across the churchyard wall, 
And found him praying still. 

But when the night was far along, 
And when the moon was high. 
When all the village lights were out. 
And closed was every eye, — 

When low above the sleeping dead 
The folded daisies slept. 
And he alone his patient watch 
Until the morning kept, — 

Came angels through the churchyard gate. 

But in no heavenly guise ; 

So unadorned, he little thought 

They came from Paradise 1 

The moon lit up their robes of white ; 
No other glory shone. 
He watched them, as they paused before 
One sunken, moss-grown stone, 

(A 



ANGELS IN THE CHURCHYARD 

And thrice their silver censers swung. 
As at some saintly shrine, 
But never incense burnt on earth 
Had perfume so divine. 

Between the graves they glided on : 
Toward a cross they turned — 
A wooden cross that bore no name — 
And there the incense burned. 

A fading garland on it hung, 
Of wild flowers simply twined ; 
Whoever lay in that poor grave 
Had left some love behind. 

But next they sought a dreary place 
Against the northern wall ; 
He could not see if mound were there. 
The nettles grew so tall I 

And on to others, three or four, 
Their noiseless steps they bent : 
Where'er they stayed, the incense rose ; 
Then, as they came, they went. 

5 65 



ANGELS IN THE CHURCHYARD 

But often to that churchyard green 
Did he at night repair ; 
And ever, when the hour returned, 
The angels all were there. 

He thought them only white-robed priests; 
And much he wondered why 
Each night at certain graves they stayed, 
While others they passed by. 

Till, after waiting, wondering long, 
One night he forward pressed. 
And spoke with one who walked apart, 
A step behind the rest. 

'T was starlight now ; the moon had waned 
He hardly saw the face 
Of him he talked with ; but he felt 
Great peace was in the place. 

*' Of God's own saints,'* the angel said, 
** A few lie buried here ; 
And He so loves them that to Him 
Their very dust is dear ! 

66 



ANGELS IN THE CHURCHYARD 

** So, while their souls with perfect peace 
Are in His presence blest, 
He will not that these humble graves 
Should all unhonoured rest. 

*' Each night from heaven He sends us down, 
Wherever His flowers are sown — 
These bodies that shall one day rise, 
All glorious like His own I ** 

The saint was silent, for his lips 
Could find no word to say : 
He stood entranced, and like to one 
Whose soul is far away. 

At length he roused ; the stars were dim, 
The night had half withdrawn : 
A light was in the eastern sky. 
The clear pale light of dawn. 

Then came a freshening in the air, 
A twitter in the trees, 
A ripple in the dewy grass 
That felt the early breeze ; 

67 



ANGELS IN THE CHURCHYARD 

And sounded from the tower above 
The sweet-toned, ancient bell ; 
While bright and busy over all 
The summer morning fell. 

The daisies opened ; happy birds 
Sang in the sunshine free. 
The dead alone are sleeping now ; 
Their morning is to be. 



68 



TLhc Origin of the Indian Corn 



69 



THIS story wm5 told mc by the Contcssa Vittoria 
Pcrcoto Antonini of Palmaiioova, who said that 
she heard it in her yooth at a FiLif which is a sort of 
social g;athcfing^ held in the winter evenings by the 
coni.iJirii in that part of the country. 

The winter is cold, and these amtidini, who arc very 
poor and can ill afford the wood for a fire* meet in the 
cattle-shed^ where the breath of cows and oxen warms 
the air a little. 

They often say, " It is the way that the Gcsu 
Bambino was warmed I'* A lantern hangs from one 
of the beams overhead, and by its dim light the women 
spin or knit. All talk together, and (as the Contessa 
Vittoria expresses it) "the boys make themselves agree- 
able to the girls, very moch as thoog;h it were a party 
of ladies and gentlemen." 

And from time to time the elder people entertain the 
company with stories, of which this is a pretty fair 
specimen. 



70 



Cbc Origin of the Indian 

Corn^H Legend of friuU^ 



IN the far Italian border land, 
With its rolling hills and mountains g:rand, 
And the Alps of Carnia rising near, 
Where the snow lies more than half the year ; 
With crags where the clinging fir-trees grow 
Above the chestnuts and vines below. 
From the weary, changing world remote, — 
There age on age doth a legend float. 
The young have learnt it from aged men ; 
It never was written yet with pen. 
It seems at first, when they tell it o'er, 
A childish fancy, and nothing more ; 
And bearing the impress, deep indeed. 
Of the hard and struggling lives they lead : 
A thing to smile at, and then forget. 
Scarce worthy a passing thought — and yet 
The simple tale may a lesson teach 
If only one can its meaning reach I 
Like one of their living, hill-side springs. 
That shows the image of common things ; 

71 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

So he who looks on its surface sees 
The bending flowers, the arching trees, 
The sun, the shadow, the rocks, the sky. 
The busy birds that go flitting by. 
While deep below is the endless wealth 
Of water, given for life and health. 

In homely form is the lesson taught ; 

But worthy still of a reverent thought. 

So listen, think ; if you have a mind 

To seek, and the hidden treasure find : 

For Truth, most precious and fair, doth dwell 

In the crystal depth of this mountain well. 

And this is the story, often told 

In the winter evenings long and cold ; 

In the low-roofed, dimly lighted shed. 

Where the breath of oxen serves instead 

Of a blazing hearth to warm the place : 

A smile of peace is on every face. 

And hearts arc light, and they often say, 

** Our Lord was warmed in the self-same way. 

That night when He on the earth was born I " 

And the shed no longer seems forlorn, 

72 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

For it makes them feel Him near at hand : 
And they the better can understand 
How by His pity and timely aid 
The beautiful Indian corn was made. 

'T was in the days when He dwelt below, 
Before 't was given to man to know 
Or who He was or from whence He came ; 
And the world had hardly heard His name I 
He journeyed over the country roads. 
He taught the poor, and He eased their loads. 
He had no dwelling wherein to rest 
With the one or two who loved Him best, 
And once in seeking a friendly door 
They came to a farmer's threshing-floor. 
The hot July had but just begun ; 
The road lay white in the blinding sun ; 
The air was heavy with odours sweet ; 
The sky was pale, as if faint with heat. 
Two weary men and two women pale 
Were threshing, each with a heavy flail, — 
A mile away you could hear the sound 
In measured cadence along the ground. 
Then, moved with pity at such a sight, 

73 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

It pleased Him to make their burden light. 
At first He prayed them to pause and rest ; 
They only smiled at the strange request, 
And laboured on till He spoke again : 
'' Fear not, Myself I will thresh the grain! ^' 

At sound of His holy voice, they knew 
That what He said He would surely do I 
He bade them bring Him a burning brand. 
And, though they little could understand. 
The brand was brought, and they saw Him 

bend, 
And touch the corn with the lighted end. 
Then swiftly, as by a tempest blown. 
The straw to the farther side was thrown ; 
The wheaten kernels, all clear and bright. 
Lay piled on high — ^t was a pleasant sight I 
Another and smaller heap contained 
The chaff, and whatever else remained. 
'T was threshed and winnowed, and all in one ; 
The work of days in a moment done I 
The happy threshers, with one accord. 
Gave thanks and praise to the blessed Lord ; 
And grateful tears at His feet were shed. 

74 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

Meanwhile the news through the village spread ; 
For more than one had been near, and seen 
The miracle of the wheat made clean. 
From field and garden and cottage door, 
The people flocked to the threshing-floor. 
Then came a time of such joy supreme 
As never had been in thought or dream. 
For when they looked on the clean-threshed 

wheat, 
And heard the threshers their tale repeat. 
And knew that He had this wonder done. 
They knelt and worshipped Him, every one I 
Oh, think how happy they were and blest, 
Who might awhile in His presence rest I 
Think what it would be for you or me 
That voice to hear and that face to see I 
The children run to Him where He stands. 
And cling with their little sunbrowned hands 
To His garment ; and the parents feel 
Their burden lightened while yet they kneel. 
** Thank God, who spared us I " the aged say, 
** To look on Thy blessed face to-day I ** 
The sick are healed, and the weak made strong, 
And hearts consoled that had suffered long : 

75 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

A sound of gladness, of praise and prayer, 
Floats far away on the summer air. 

Amid such transports of young and old. 
How was it that one could still be cold ? 
A certain widow whom all confessed 
To be the bravest, perhaps the best. 
Among the women the place contained — 
Why was it that she aloof remained ? 

Handsome and stately, and strong of arm 

To guard her fatherless babes from harm. 

With five little hungry mouths to fill ; 

For them she laboured with might and will I 

But, proud of spirit, she could not bear 

That other hearts should her burden share. 

Of soul too high for an evil deed. 

She scorned the others, but helped their need. 

In wit and wisdom the rest excelled. 

And yet their kindness too oft repelled ; 

Accepted nothing, though free to give. 

And almost rather had ceased to live 

Than share the loaf from a neighbour's shelf. 

Yes, proud of her very pride itself ! 

76 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

She nursed it, cherished it, thought it grand. 

To guide unaided her house and land. 

And thanked the Lord, when she knelt to pray, 

That never one in the place could say, 

" I help the widow ! ** And now she stood 

Apart from the kneeling multitude. 

And half impatient and half amused. 

She smiled at the simple words they used. 

Of praise and wonder, and thought how she 

Could never so weak and childish be ! 

For her 't was a proud and happy day, 

For rest and plenty before her lay : 

Herself had sown and herself had reaped ; 

And now the beautiful sheaves lay heaped, 

Not far away, by her open door ; 

Her heart rejoiced in the ample store I 

A neighbour saw her, and called her name : 

** Come near I perhaps He will do the same 

For thee, and thy summer's work complete ; 

I know that thou hast not threshed thy wheat ! ** 

She tossed her head with a smile of pride : 
** I never yet, since my husband died, 

77 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

Asked help or favour of any one ! 
Besides, I s»iw how the thing was done. 
And I c.\n do it as well as He ; 
He need not turn from His way for nie ! " 
She looked on the awed, adoring crowd. 
In scorn a moment ; then laughed aloud. 
To see the horror among them spre.id. 
At sound of the evil words she said. 

Our Lord's disciples, though saints they were. 

Had no good wislies that day for her I 

Lideed, their p.itience was greatly tried 

To see Him slighted and thrust aside. 

One even whispered* ** Hast Thou not heard ? ** 

But He said never an angry word I 

One look of pity He on her cast. 

Then turned, and forth from the N-illage passed. 

Along the lane where the grass was bro^^^l, 

And birds were pkicking the thistle-dowm. 

Till under the olives* silver screen 

He turned aside, and no more was seen. 

^\nd now the widow of heart so proud 
Wovild sliow to the grave, indignant crowd 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

Her greater wisdom ; with this intent 
She calmly in to her fireside went ; 
Some coals she brought in an iron pan — 
** If one can do it, another can I " 
She said ; and then with a cireless smile 
She touched the coals to her golden pile. 

A flash, a crackle, a blinding blaze 
Of flame, that struggles, and soars, and sways, 
And sinks a moment, and soars again — 
That was the end of the widow's grain I 
A few short moments, and nought remained 
Of all that her loving toil had gained 
But blackened tinder, and embers red. 
And the sullen smoke-cloud overhead I 

Her friends and neighbours, I fear, meanwhile 
Were far less minded to weep than smile ; 
And hardly one was with pity moved, 
For the woman was not greatly loved. 
And all were angry, as well as grieved. 
To think of the slight our Lord received. 
After His wonderful goodness shown, 
And when He had made their cares His own I 

79 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

The boys were ready to dance and shout, 

At seeing the red sparks blown about ; 

The maidens whispered and laughed aside ; 

Their parents talked on the sin of pride. 

To help or comfort her, no one planned, 

Except the poorest of all the band ; 

An aged woman, who near her came. 

And drew her back from the scorching flame. 

**Poor souir* she said, '*thou hast children 

five I 
And I have none in the world alive. 
Keep up thy heart I I am well content 
To share with thee what the Lord has sent. 
I just have gathered my harvest store. 
And when 't is gone. He will send us more I " 

In vain they spoke to her, ill or good ; 
She neither listened nor understood. 
She minded not if they frowned or smiled ; 
Her face was white, and her eyes were wild. 
As, lost in horror, she stood and gazed 
To see the corn by her labour raised. 
Their store of food for the coming year, 
Consume before her and disappear I 

80 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

Then came the cry of a little child, 

From sleep awakened, in terror wild. 

That cry brought life to her fainting heart ; 

She turned around with a sudden start. 

And said, in a husky voice and low, 

** Which way did that Blessed Stranger go ? ** 

A storm of voices around her rose ; 
The woman^s purpose they all oppose* 
** Which Ji^ay ? " they angrily say ; ** but how ? 
Wilt thou have courage to seek him now? 
And after thy shameful words to-day, 
Is He to stop for thee on His way ? 
Is He to come when He hears thy call ? 
But, woman, hast thou no shame at all ? ** 
** Nay, go not near Him ! " another said : 
** That man has power to strike thee dead. 
And thou hast angered Him ! Let Him go — 
Thy pride has ruined thee; be it sol " 

Though none to help her a hand would lend, 
That gray-haired woman was still her friend ; 
She could not speak, for her voice was drowned 
In such a tumult of angry sound. 
6 81 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

She only made with her wrinkled hand 
A sign the widow could understand, 
And quick as thought, and before they knew. 
Away on her wild pursuit she flew. 

Our Blessed Lord, with His followers few. 

Had journeyed on for a mile or two, 

When, on the brow of a rocky hill. 

The others noticed that He stood still 

And looked behind Him ; they did the same. 

A woman running toward them came. 

Running and stumbling, and falling oft. 

And throwing wildly her arms aloft, 

As if entreating them still to stay 

Till she could finish the toilsome way I 

They looked ; and pity their souls possessed 

At first in seeing her thus distressed ; 

But when they knew her, their hearts grew 

hard. 
Nor would they longer her prayers regard. 
'' Good Lord, that woman it is,'* they say, 
** Who scorned and slighted Thee so to-day. 
She knows her folly, perhaps, too late ; 
For her, most surely, we should not wait I ** 

82 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

** She needs me now ! " was His sole reply ; 
And still He waited — they wondered why I 

Down in the dust at His feet she fell : 
Her doleful story she could not tell, 
For speech had failed, and she vainly tried : 
But, stretching her helpless hands, she cried 
(With lips that hardly the words could form, 
They trembled so with the inward storm), 
" Good Lord, have patience, and pity take 
On me, for the innocent children's sake I " 
And then from her eyes began to pour 
A flood of tears, and she said no more. 
She dropped her head on her heaving breast ; 
But He in His wisdom knew the rest. 
And when He looked on her, bowed and 

crushed, 
Her pride all broken, her boasting hushed, 
''Take heart I" He said: ''I will give thee 

more 
And better grain than thou hadst before.** 

The day was drawing toward a close. 
The sky was clear in its deep repose ; 

83 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

The sun, just sinking away from sight, 
Had touched with a solemn crimson light 
The smoky column that, dark and thin, 
Still rose where the widow^s sheaves had 

been. 
The neighbours lingered, or came and went 
To look, and talk of the day^s event. 
And, smiling grimly the wreck to view. 
Some said : ** The widow has had her due 1 " 
But more of them shook their heads and 

sighed. 
To think of the bitter fruits of pride. 
And one old woman looked down the lane. 
And wished the widow would come again I 
The five poor little ones sat forlorn. 
Beside the blackened and wasted corn ; 
And ate the bread that the neighbours 

brought : 
For them, at least, there was pitying thought. 
No sin of theirs, if the com was burned I 
And then it was that the Lord returned. 

Returned, as ever, to save and bless 1 
And while the people around Him press, 

84 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

The widow kneels and the children weep^ 

He lays His hand on the smouldering heap* 

His touch has the evil work undone ; 

And in the light of the setting sun 

The com returned where the ashes lay; 

But not as it was at noon that day. 

To twice their size had the kernels grown, 

And each with a burning lustre shone. 

For, since that grain through the fire has 

passed, 
*T will bear its colour until the last I 

A few, in seeing the store increased 

Of her who seemed to deserve it least. 

Began to murmur ; and yet, maybe. 

Themselves were more in the wrong than she ! 

With all her folly, with all her sin — 

For all her ignorant pride had been 

Far more, alas, than her reason strong, — 

She never did Him that grievous wrong 

Of thinking He could refuse the prayer 

I jOf one who sought Him in her despair ; 

i Or that her sin, were it twice as great. 
Could close His heart to her woful state ; 

85 



THE ORIGIN OF THE INDIAN CORN 

Or lie so heavily on her soul 

But what His love could outweigh the whole ! 

But most rejoiced in the happy sight 

Of evil conquered and wrong made right. 

And so from ruin and wreck was born 
The beautiful, flame-hued Indian corn I 



8^ 



ZhtGldtst Daiwibtcr of the King 



87 



THE two stories of the Patr iaf ch, St. John of Alex- 
andria^ which are especially interesting, as being; 
without doubt true in all their principal f acts, are taken 
from a short account of that wonderful man, written 
by St. Leontius, Bishop of Napolis, in Cyprus, who 
visited Alexandria after the Patriarch's death, and 
wrote in great part from the dictation of the Patriarch's 
servant, by name Zaccarias, himself a man of saintly 
character. The stories must have been written by St. 
Leontius not long after 620, when the Patriarch died. 



88 



Che eldest Daughter 
of the King 

SAINT JOHN of Alexandria — blessed name, 
Recalling ever holy thought and deed ! 
O heart forever warm with heavenly flame ! 

hand forever full for others* need I 

Blessed and blessing thousands I Since his day, 
Twelve hundred years, and more, have come 

and gone. 
Their beauty dead, their glory passed away : 
But in our loving thought he still lives on. 

Of all who ever walked on earthly sod, 
(Though many loved and saintly names there 
be,) 

1 know not if another ever trod 

More closely in his Master's steps than he I 

To comfort all who suffer, — this alone 
His soul desired ; for this he prayed and strove 
With heart unchanging ; and for him were none 
Too high for pity, nor too low for love. 

89 



ELDEST DAUGHTER OF THE KING 

And often was he rich, and often poor ; 
For God upon him had great wealth bestowed, 
Which endless store of blessing did procure 
To souls that fainted with their weary load. 

Nor could he e'er from sorrow turn away, 
Nor from a brother's need his hand withhold ; 
But when his all was spent, men used to say. 
The good Lord gave him back a hundredfold. 

Enough there was, and ever more to spare, 
Though help abundant came at every call. 
When prudent friends had prayed him to forbear, 
He only said, ** God has enough for all." 

Till, for their souls' content, he told the truth, — 
He being now a grey-haired aged man, — 
The holy vision that had blessed his youth. 
And changed,'of all his life, the course and plan. 

** A boy I was, and in my father's home 
I slept ; 't was night, and I was all alone. 
When to my side I felt a presence come ; 
A hand awakened me that touched my own. 

90 



ELDEST DAUGHTER OF THE KING 

** I saw the chamber all ablaze with light. 
And there, before me, stood a lady fair, 
With olive crowned, and clad in raiment bright, 
Such as, I think, the saints in Heaven may wear. 

'* Hers was no earthly beauty, but a grace 
Most sweet and solemn that no words can reach ; 
I looked awhile in her celestial face. 
And then addressed her, but with timid speech : 

" * Who art thou, O my lady, that dost bring 
Such glory in the night ? ' Then answered she : 
* I am the eldest daughter of the King, 
And more than all my sisters, he loves me. 

** * For me He left His glory : it was I 
Who led Him on along the thorny road, 
To suffer, and for others' sin to die ; 
For me He shared thy sorrow, bore thy load. 

** * Take me for thy companion : I will be 
Thy friend as I was His, and by the hand 
Will lead thee where at evening thou shalt see 
The emperor's face, and in his presence stand.* 

91 



ELDEST DAUGHTER OF THE KING 

** While yet the voice was sounding in my ear 
The vision ceased ; I saw the light no more : 
The moon was shining through the window near, 
And all the house was silent as before. 

" And, waiting till I saw the dawn ascend, 
I lay and mused upon this wondrous thing ; 
And tried, with my child^s mind, to comprehend 
Who was the eldest daughter of the King. 

** I prayed, I pondered long in vain ; until 
A light from Heaven was on my spirit shed : 
And not by wisdom, nor by earthly skill, 
I knew the meaning of the words she said. 

** When Christ our blessed Lord to earth came 

down. 
And gave His life for lost and thankless men. 
And changed His glory for a thorny crown, 
'T was Mercy led and did constrain Him then. 

'*Ah, woe to us, if Mercy had not been 
His eldest daughter, and His guide that day I 
Then had we died, and perished in our sin, 
Unpitied, unforgiven, cast away." 

92 



ELDEST DAUGHTER OF THE KING 

Such was the Patriarch^s story, and we know 
That Mercy in his heart her dwelling made. 
As in no other ; and his life below 
Was Mercy, in a thousand forms displayed. 

And when the summons came that comes to all. 
As on a journey distant far he went ; 
While he, rejoicing, heard the heavenly call. 
This token to the stricken church was sent. 

A humble convent had his bounty shared, 
From Alexandria some few miles away; 
And there, where he for rest had oft repaired, 
An aged brother sick and dying lay. 

For years infirm and helpless had he Iain, 
But strong in faith, and happy in God's will. 
Through all the weary days and nights of pain. 
His only work to suffer and lie still. 

They two were friends, the Patriarch and he. 
For oft the busy saint had loved to turn 
From care and work, that peaceful face to see. 
And from those patient lips some lesson learn. 

93 



ELDEST DAUGHTER OF THE KING 

And now as he lay dying, glad to go, 
Yet thinking, maybe, of his absent friend. 
To him was granted in a dream to know, 
Of that most holy life, the blessed end. 

For, sleeping, he beheld in vision clear 
That sombre palace by the poor beloved. 
Where the good Patriarch, year after year. 
Had all their burdens lightened or removed. 

And down the stairway moved a long array 
Of priests and others ; slowly did they tread, 
A grave procession, as on festal day. 
And he, the Patriarch, was at their head. 

The loved companions of his toil were there. 
Who helped him long to labour and endure. 
Who knelt beside him in the church at prayer, 
Or bore his secret bounty to the poor. 

They passed the door where none had knocked 

in vain. 
They crossed the courtyard with its well of stone; 
But at the outer gate did all remain 
With saddened look, while he went forth alone. 

94 



ELDEST DAUGHTER OF THE KING 

And now the vision changed, he walked no more 
The city street that knew his step so well, 
But trod a pleasant path, unknown before. 
Through a fair land, where peace did ever dwell. 

There rose the emperor^s palace on a hill, 
Overlooking all the country, where it lay 
Spread out beneath it, beautiful and still. 
In all the sweetness of an April day. 

Grand was that mansion, stately to behold ; 
To tell its beauty words can ne'er begin, — 
The thousand columns, and the domes of gold. 
And shining all as from a light within. 

He neared the palace — of their own accord 
The lofty gates before him open swing, 
And in the glory, as it outward poured. 
Came forth the eldest daughter of the King, 

Came as he saw her on that far-off night 
Which star-like through his life's long journey 

shone. 
Wearing her olive crown, her robe of light. 
And came to meet him, where he walked alone. 

95 



ELDEST DAUGHTER OF THE KING 

He bowed and knelt before her^ for he knew 
That presence which had blessed him long 

before ; 
While from her folded mantle forth she drew 
A crown of olive, like the one she wore. 

And placed it on the saintly silvered head ; 
Then took his hand. He rose ; nor did they wait : 
The dreamer watched them as they onward sped, 
Till, hand in hand, they entered through the 
gate. 

And then, as light concealed them, he awoke. 
And to the brethren, gathered in his cell. 
In tearful silence listening while he spoke. 
He did the story of his vision tell. 

And bade them note what hour the dream was 

sent. 
Which some with anxious hearts made haste to 

do; 

Then waited, fearing what the vision meant ; 

Till time had shown them all they feared was 

true. 

96 



ELDEST DAUGHTER OF THE KING 

For when the dreaded tidings came at last, 
They knew that on that very hour and day 
Their much-loved father from this life had 

passed. 
In his own isle of Cyprus, far away. 



97 



Bishop Troilus 



99 



Bishop Croilus 



THE MANSION IN HEAVEN 

IN pomp and state, with following great, the 
Bishop Troilus came 
To the town of Alexandria, which knew him 

long by fame, 
To see the holy Patriarch, who had been his 

friend of old. 
To hear his words of wisdom, and his saintly 

life behold. 
In youth their paths together lay, and both with 

one accord 
Had chosen then the better part, and thought to 

serve the Lord ; 
For half a century now and more had each one 

gone his way. 
The Patriarch nearer was to God, far nearer 

than that day ; 
For his soul was like a garden where the flowers 

that then were sown. 
With care and patient tending, had to perfect 

beauty grown. 

m 



BISHOP TROILUS 



And Troilus? ... In the world's esteem he 

stood as high, or higher ; 
His piety did all men praise, his eloquence 

admire ; 
He had fiery words to thrill them, he had flowery 

words to please. 
And when he preached on festal days, the people 

swMrmed like bees ; 
From altar steps to open door there was hardly 

room to stand. 
And *t was not the sermon only, but his presence 

was so grand ; 
With his grave and aged beauty, with his form 

erect and tall. 
With saintly face and silver hair, he won the 

hearts of all. 
When through the city he returned, so lofty and 

serene, 
A train of priests attended him. all with obsequi- 
ous mien : 
And children followed open-eyed, and gentle 

ladies bent 
From balcony and window high to see him as 

he went. 

i02 



BISHOP TROILUS 



Indeed he was a stately sight in silken raiment 

clad^ 
The ring he wore was valued more than aught 

the Patriarch had ; 
And the cross upon his bosom, that the people 

wondering viewed, 
Gave back the sunshine, when he walked, from 

jewels many-hued. 
And men said his life was blameless, but it still 

must be confessed, 
Though the saints were glad to own him, yet 

the sinners loved him best. 
He was rich, and he was famous, and, as all his 

life had shown. 
He was great in worldly Wisddfn, and the world 

will love its own. 

But while saints and sinn^fs praised him, there 
was one who did not praise. 

But whose eyes forever watched him with a sad 
and anxious gaze ; 

For the Patriarch, simple-hearted, was not daz- 
zled like the rest, 



}03 



BISHOP TROILUS 



And he knew the deadly passion that the Bishop's 

soul possessed, — 
Yes, more deadly than another, for it lay so still 

and cold, 
Like a serpent coiled within him, — 'twas the 
Vi growing love of gold. 

It had choked away his pleasure, it had eaten up 

his peace. 
As with every year that left him he had seen his 

wealth increase. 
Till his heart grew dry and withered in the 

smoke of worldly care ; 
But it dulled him with its poison, and he knew 

not it was there. 
Oh, the Patriarch longed to see him from such 

cruel bondage free. 
And he pleaded hard for Troilus every night on 

bended knee ; 
For there yet was time to save him, so he hoped 

and so believed. 
But the days and weeks were passing, and no 

answer he received. 



104 



BISHOP TROILUS 



But with praying he grew bolder, and to combat 

he began, 
And he left his door one morning with a wise 

and hopeful plan; 
And he said in solemn murmur, as he walked 

along the way, 
'* I must go and fight with Satan for my brother's 

soul to-day; 
He is cruel, he is cunning, but his arts will be in vain, 
The strongest net he ever wove will never bear 

the strain 
Of seeing and of hearing what each day I hear 

and sec. 
And the Lord has saved my brother if he will 

but come with me/' 

It was in the early morning, long before the noise 

and heat. 
And the life was just beginning in the shady city 

street. 
When he saw a church door open, and he turned 

and entered in. 

** I will ask the Lord to help me in this work that 

I begin/' 

tos 



BISHOP TROILUS 



There were some who entered near him, ani he 
saw they cime in haste^ 

Toiling men and burdened women, who had 
little time to waste ; 

But they stoic some precious minutes in that 
church to kneel and pray. 

To refresh their souls and cheer them for the 
labours of the d.iy ; 

And they gathered close around him on the pave- 
ment, for they felt 

That their prayers would rise the higher if their 
father w~ith them knelt. 

Then he said to them : '* My children, you must 
help me now indeed. 

For my heart and soul are troubled for a friend 
in sorest need; 

He is low with mortal sickness, but no earthly 
skill can cure. 

Pray the Lord to show His mercy to the poorest 
of the poor. " 

So they knelt and prayed together, till the morn- 
ing sun was high. 

For the Patriarch's heart was kindled, and the 
time went quickly by. 

10© 



BISHOP TROILUS 



Troilus too had risen early, and had said his 

morning prayers, 
But he said them somewhat coldly, being filled 

with other cares. 
At that moment he was thinking, while he 

counted up his store. 
Upon certain silver goblets he had seen the day 

before. 
Which a silversmith had brought him, and had 

hoped that he would buy. 
They were nobly wrought and chiselled, and the 

price indeed was high. 
But he thought upon his table they would look 

exceeding fine 
When his friends, the rich and noble, should 

come in with him to dine ; 
Then how all of them would envy^ and this 

thought his spirit cheered, — 
When a gentle knock aroused him, and the 

Patriarch appeared. 
Very bright his eyes were shining, and his face 

was all aglowt 
But his voice was strange and solemn, when he 

told him, ** I must go 

J07 



BISHOP TROILUS 



To the hospital, my brother, and I came here on 

my way ; 
If wc both could go together, it would be a happy 

day. 
There I find my greatest blessing, every morning 

fresh and new. 
But far greater, but far sweeter could I share it 

once with you, ** 
How the heart of Troilus softened, as those eyes 

upon him shone. 
At their look of earnest pleading, at the tremor 

in the tone ! 
Strange it was that look could melt him and that 

voice could change him so. 
Calling back to life, a moment, what had 

withered long ago, — 
Some old good that stirred udthin him, often 

spurned and thrust aside. 
But the flowers the Lord had planted, though 

they d"windled, had not died ; 
He was poor in heavenly treastire, but he loved 

the Patriarch still. 
** I will come,** he answered quickly ; " you may 

lead me where you will.** 

10,3 



BISHOP TROILUS 



There were looks and tones of wonder in the 

hospital that day. 
From the rows of low white couches where the 

sick and dying lay. 
As, with all his train about hini, in his splendour 

and his pride. 
On he walked, the Bishop Troilus, by the sim- 
ple Patriarch's side. 
But erelong the two were parted, for as Troilus 

looked around, 
He recoiled in shrinking horror from each doleful 

sight and sound; 
While the Patriarch loved to linger for a while 

by every bed. 
With his strong arms ever ready to sustain a 

drooping head ; 
Happy in each humble service, and forgetting all 

his state, 
While he thanked the Lord who sent him on 

these stricken ones to wait. 
How the pale sad faces brightened into smiles as 

he drew near, 
And what loving words were murmured, faintly 

murmured in his ear I 

i09 



BISHOP TROILUS 



** Docs he well/' said Bishop Troilus, as he saw 

him turn and go 
From one bedside to another, ^* does he well to 

stoop so low ? " 
Yet had Troilus only known it, they were not 

the poor alone 
Whom his brother served that morning, but their 

Master and his own. 
There was one but just recovered, light of heart, 

though poor and weak. 
With a journey long before him, going forth his 

home to seek. 
Far away among the mountains where his wife 

and children stayed ; 
But the Patriarch^s love had found him ere the 

stranger sought his aid, 
Giving money for the journey, giving blessed 

words of cheer. 
Then he turned, for time was pressing, and a 

sadder face lay near. 
Worn by months of pain and languor; he was 

young, had once been strong, 

He was fading now, but slowly, and perhaps 

would suffer long, 
no 



BISHOP TROILUS 



And the hundred wants of sickness who can 

know that has not proved ? 
He had wearied all about him, but the Patriarch^s 

heart was moved ; 
So he heard the long complaining to which no 

one else gave heed. 
Then he left him, soothed and peaceful, with 

enough for all his need. 
So with one and with another for a moment he 

would stay, 
At each bed he left a blessing, and a blessing 

brought away, 
Till his purse grew light and empty, as had hap- 
pened oft before ; 
Though he turned it up and shook it, there was 

not one penny more. 

Then he turned and sought for Troilus, who that 

moment, as it chanced, 
With a look subdued and solemn, stood and 

gazed, like one entranced. 
On the strange, unearthly beauty, on the light of 

perfect peace 
In a woman's face before him ; she was nearing 

her release, m 



BISHOP TROILUS 



And a glory rested on her from the opening door 

above; 
Yet one shadow niarred its splendour when she 

looked with anxious love 
On a little maid, her d.iughter, v*-ith a pretty, 

careworn face. 
Who Kid brought two younger childi'en, waitiiig 

now for her embrace. 
Wondering why she did not give it, why so 

deadly still she lay. 
For they knew not, though slie knew it. she 

would not live out the d*iy. 
Said the Patriarch : '* Brother Troilus, have you 

nothing you could give 
To this woman and her children, for she has not 

long to live ? 
And I see her mind is troubled, and I think, be- 
fore they p.irt. 
Had she sometliing she could leave thein, it 

\^^uld ease her burdened heart : 
For myself, I freely promise I '^ill make these 

babes my care. 
But to-d.iy my purse is empty, so I pray you not 
to spare," 

U2 



BISHOP TROILUS 



Oh I alas, poor Bishop Troilus I how this plead- 
ing broke the spell 
That the woman's look had woven, and how 

low his spirit fell I 
For he dearly loved his money, with a passion 

deep and blind, 
As a scholar loves his learning, or a saint his 

peace of mind. 
But the eyes of all were on him at that moment, 

and he knew 
'Twas in hopeful expectation of what such a 

saint would do; 
There were many who had entered from the 

busy street to gazCf 
He would not be shamed before them, they should 

still have cause to praise ; 
But his purse would have to open, so he turned 

and waved his hand 
To the priest who always bore it, with a gesture 

of command. 
** For this woman for her daughter and the two 

poor babes,'' said he, 
** Lay down thirty golden pieces in the Patriarch's 

hand for me." 

8 113 



BISHOP TROILUS 



ThcTC ^'iTrc notu- v^ h.^ had not heard him, for his 

voice was loui and dear. 
And a low. admiring murmur rose from all the 

couches near, 
^^hile the Patriarch stovxi rejoicing in the deed 

his friend had do>ne : 
By himself he mdged .mother, and he thought 

the NiJtorv won. 
For one moment Bishop Trv^ilus feels his narrow 

heart e.\p«.ir>d. 
^J^'hen the maiden thanks him weepir.g. M\d the 

children kiss his hand. 
And the mother. Hist dep»,irting. from the pillow 

where she hes. 
Turns one happv smile upon him. \^-ith a bless- 
ing in her eves. 

Bvit alas ! on home returning, when the sacrifice 

was made. 
\^>ien the Patriarch's ho!v presence was no 

longer there to aid. 
He did much bvw^il his monev : half in ang^r, 

h.vlf in pain. 
To h.\vc parted ii\ a moment ^^-ith what tcvk so 

long to gain. 114 



BISHOP TROILUS 



And liis heart was m a tvirmoil. and a p^im was 
ill liis head. 

Till the raging: Kirncd to fever, and he threw him 
on his bed 

In a storm of angry p^ission tl"uit no reason coviJd 
control : 

For to him to pvirt with money was like parting 
with his sotd. 

But he s^iid no word to any of tins rage and in- 
ward strife, 

And the priests who waited on him were in ter- 
ror for Ins life. 

And as noticing made ham better, they took 
covinsel, and agreed 

That the Patriarch, and he only, was the man 
to meet their need ; 

So they sent and humbly prayed him if to come 
he would be pleased. 

For liis friend the Bishop Troilus was with sud- 
den illness seized. 

Li his chamber lay the Bishop, sick ui body, sick 

in mind : 
But the Patriarch, wise in spirit, had liis malady 

di\'ined. n5 



BISHOP TROILUS 



So he came and sat beside him, patient still, but 

pale with grief, 
While he made one last endeavour for that 

troubled soul's relief. 
But his friend was sore and angry, and his words 

he would not hear. 
For the presence now disturbed him that had 

lately been so dear. 
And he lay with face averted, till he heard the 

Patriarch say, 
** I have brought you back the money that you 

gave away to-day.'* 
Then indeed he started wildly, and his eyes he 

opened wide, 
And he turned and faced his brother with a joy 

he could not hide ; 
For with sudden hope he trembled, and it paled 

his fevered cheek ; 
And the Patriarch's heart was sinking, but he 

still went on to speak : 
** When I asked your help this morning, I had 

nothing of my own, 
So I left to you the blessing which had else Been 

mine alone ; 



BISHOP TROILUS 



For those three dear orphan children I had gladly 

done the whole, 
So their mother up in heaven might be praying 

for my soul. 
, And I now have come to ask you if this grace 

you will resign, — 
Will you take again the money, and let your good 

deed be mine ? 
Yet I pray you to consider, ere you grant it or 

refuse, 
What a great and heavenly treasure I shall win 

ahd you will lose; 
For indeed I would not wrong you, though to me 

the gain be great. 
So then do nut answer rashly, — there is time, 

we both can wait. 
And 't were well to think a little on the words 

our Master said, 
How He left the poor behind, that we might 

serve them in His stead ; 
And whatever help we grant them, be it great or 

be it small. 

To our blessed Lord we give it, to our Lord, who 

gave us all.^* 

m 



BISHOP TROILUS 



Then '.r..iic .v.-.swjr F-.slv^r Tr.^'.lv:;^. " As tor 

\vh.\t N\^v. ■•■..^w '(.^r.^'.vSi:, 
I: :; ^' j.'Sj \ v\i 1 .v.w rcaiv. .l;^w :hj .\:;^:-i wc 

T'p.crc .vrc '.u.inv 's^.t-i.ds ot scn-^^cc. .\ni c.ich ncci- 

tul in Its w.w. 
And I ::v,"k th.- I .^-i h.is set inc ui His ch-orch 

And tv'> save the soiils that pcns-h. .ind to teach 

men how to Unic* 
\\":'..".j vour ow".! \\v.';r.on. bt\^:her. is wSth open 

Let no: oo; .v::.\. .-^ ::rj ochcr, t.ikc vour part and 

Fo. .'..^w j'er we 'oo.av di\-^.de it, .vll the serv-ee is 

di\-ine. 
Let VIS feed Gvxi's tlvxk K>$ether. for H < -.jiv 

1 :;\e s,^. s .\ -.^ n /.^ ;:\e b\\i\es, s.^ :he ^..r^en we 

■'.'.. :n s;\.':v " 
** Then s<^ be it." s.v.d : : -jr. b;;t :vs \o^ee 

was '.ow ao.d jirave. 
And he praved to ^.^-Ov- ■. -. s.'.v -jv '.^r :':'.e sovil he 

eould not s.-\e. 



BISHOP TROILUS 



" Wc must write it all in order, \vc must siv;n 

and seal it too. 
So that mine may be the blessing, while the gold 

remains with you." 

So they wrote a contract solemn, to wliich each 
one signed his name. 

In which he, the Bishop Troilus, did relinquish 
every claim 

To whatever reward or merit his one pious deed 
had earned, 

Since the thirty golden pieces to his hand had 
been returned. 

Then the Patriarch counted slowly all the pieces, 
one by one. 

In the open hand of Troilus, and his last attempt 
was done. 

All had failed, and heavy-hearted from that cham- 
ber forth he went. 

While his friend lay still and smiling in the full- 
ness of content ; 

For the fever now had left him, and 't was sweet 
to lie and rest. 

With no more a thorn to vex him in his smooth, 
untroubled breast. 

U9 



BISHOP TROILUS 



With a dreamy satisfaction he was thinking all 

the while 
How those pretty shining pieces would increase 

the golden pile 
In that chest of hoarded treasure that already held 

so much ; 
And he laid his hand upon them with a fond 

caressing touch. 
But his thoughts began to wander, and his eyes 

were closing soon, 
In the drowsy heat and stillness of the summer 

afternoon. 

Then a dream was sent to bless him, as in quiet 

sleep he lay, 
And it bore him in a vision to the country far away ; 
And he saw the holy city, where the saints and 

angels dwell ; 
Of its glory, of its beauty, mortal tongue can 

never tell. 
There were palm-trees growing stately by the 

water, crystal clear ; 
There was music ever swelling, sometimes far 

and sometimes near, 

J 20 



BISHOP TROILUS 



As it rose in mystic cadence from the hearts that 

overflowed 
With the joy that reigns forever in their beautiful 

abode. 
And the people of that city whom he met along 

the way 
On the shining golden pavement, oh, how full of 

peace were they! 
For he thought some heavenly vision shone for- 
ever in their sight, 
And he looked where they were gazing, but he 

only saw the light 
As it flooded all with glory, and the air it seemed 

to fill; 
But he saw not what they looked on, for his eyes 

were mortal still. 
Now among those lighted faces there were some 

he knew before, 
Of the poor to whom so often he had closed his 

heart and door; 
Such as in the heavenly city he had little thought 

to find. 
For the sad and sick and needy had been never 

to his mind : 

J21 



BISHOP TROILUS 



Of the rich were not so many^ yet a few of these 

beside, 
Who by deeds of love and mercy had their 

Master glorified. 
And in perfect health and beauty, among all that 

bright array, 
Was the woman he saw dying in the hospital 

that day. 

All along the road he travelled, to the left and to 

the right. 
Rose the palaces they dwelt in, each a mansion 

of delight, 
But all varying in their beauty, far away as eye 

could reach. 
With a name in golden letters, high above the 

door of each. 
And sweet faces smiled upon him, from the win- 
dows here and there. 
Gentle faces free forever from the shade of earthly 

care; 
And he heard the happy voices of the children 

as they played 



122 



BISHOP TROILU5 



In the fair and peaceful gardens, where the roses 

never fade ; 
And the things he left behind him seemed so very 

poor and small, 
That he wondered, in that glory, why men cared 

for them at all. 

But oh, wonder of all wonders, when he saw a 

name that shone 
O'er a high and arching doorway, yes, a name 

that was his own ! 
Could it be his eyes deceived him ? No, he read 

it o'er and o'er ; 
** This," it said, ** of Bishop Troilus is the home 

forcvermore." 
Oh the beauty of that palace, with such light and 

splendour filled, 
That he thought the clouds of sunset had been 

hewn its walls to gild ; 
And the golden door stood open, he could catch 

a glimpse within 
Of the vast illumined chambers where no foot 

had ever been. 



123 



BISHOP TROILUS 



He could only gaze bewildered, for the wonder 
was too great, 

And the joy so poured upon him he could hardly 
bear the weight. 

Then he took one step toward it, but a servant 
of the King 

Who from far-off earth that morning had re- 
turned on busy wing, 

And was bearing gifts and tokens from the scat- 
tered church below, 

Came and passed and stood before him, in the 
courtyard's golden glow. 

Then he turned to his companions, for a few had 

gathered near. 
And his words fell hard and heavy on the Bishop's 

listening ear, — 
** We must cancel that inscription from the stone, 

and write thereon 
That Troilus hath this palace sold unto the 

Patriarch John, 
And that thirty golden pieces were the price that 

he received." 



$24 



BISHOP TROILUS 



Up then started Bishop Troilus, for his soul was 

sorely grieved, 
And he tried to speak, but could not, and awoke 

in his dismay. 
With his hand upon the money close beside him 

where be lay. 

Now the long bright day was over ; as he saw 
the sun descend, — 

** Weary day,'^ the Patriarch thought it ; he was 
glad to see it end. 

He was walking in his garden where the fresh- 
ening shadows lay. 

And the flowers that drooped at noontime stood 
erect in beauty gay ; 

But their brightness could not cheer him, and he 
bent his head and sighed. 

For he thought, with wondering sadness, that the 
Lord his prayer denied. 

Then he heard a step behind him, and he looked; 

but who was there, 
Wild of look, like one who struggled with a pain 

he could not bear ? 

125 



BISHOP TROILUS 



Could ft be the stately Bishop? Yes, but oh, 

how changed to see I 
And he said with tears and trembling, ** O my 

brother, pray for me ! ** 
How the Patriarch^s heart rebounded from the 

weight that on it pressed. 
At the change so deep and sudden, in those 

broken words expressed ! 
How his cheek grew red with gladness, how it 

smoothed his troubled brow! 
** God forgive me if I doubted, all my prayers 

are answered now." 

** G^me,*' he said, ** my brother Troilus, sit be- 
side me, tell me all ; '^ 

And he led him, pale and helpless, to a seat be- 
side the wall. 

And there Troilus, clinging closely to that strong 
and helpful hand. 

Trusting in the heart that loved him and his 
thoughts could understand. 

Told the story of his vision to his awed and 
listening friend, — 

All that dream of light and glory, with its sad, 
unlooked-for end : 
)26 



BISHOP TROILUS 



But his voice, which trembled ever, wellnigh 

failed him when he told 
Of the horror of that waking, with his hand 

upon the gold ; 
When his eyes, long blind, were opened, and he 

saw the wreck within. 
And one fearful moment showed him what his 

wasted life had been. 
''Now," he said, ''my courage fails me when I 

think to mend my ways. 
I have wasted all God gave me, — mind, and 

strength, and length of days, — 
And the gold I gave my soul for pulls me down- 
ward with its weight ; 
Help me if you can, oh, help me ! Say it is not 

yet too late." 
And he looked with eyes beseeching at the 

Patriarch, who replied 
With a smile that fell like sunshine on the faint 

heart by his side, — 

" What I too late for God^s forgiveness, when He 

calls you to repent ? 
'Twas to save you, not to lose you, that the 

blessed dream was sent; 

127 



BISHOP TROILUS 



*Tis His help, not mine, my brother, you are 

needing, and you know, 
If we ask it. He will give it, for Himself has told 

us so. 
And the prodigal returning shall be welcomed 

all the more 
If the years were long and many since he left his 

Father^s door/^ 
"But," said Troilus, "I am aged, and my man- 

hood^s strength is past ; 
After such a life ungodly, can I hope for grace at 

last?" 
** Never fear," the Patriarch answered, ** there is 

joy in heaven to-day. 
And they ask not in their gladness if your hair 

be black or gray." 

So then Troilus gathered courage, and that night, 

by deed and word. 
Gave himself and all his substance to the service 

of the Lord; 
Yet in his own strength mistrusting, he implored 

his friend anew 
With his daily prayer to aid him, and he promised 

so to do. 

128 



BISHOP TROILUS 



And the thirty golden pieces he returned to him 

again, 
Yes, and other thirty with them, for the change 

was not in vain. 

Then he left the past behind him, and a better 

life began ; 
From that evening in the garden he became 

another man. 
There was no more train about him when he 

walked the city through. 
For the priests who once attended now had better 

work to do ; 
And the ladies cared no longer from their bal- 
conies to lean. 
When of worldly pomp and splendour there was 

nothing to be seen. 
For the cross of many jewels on his bosom shone 

no more. 
Having gone on works of mercy to increase his 

heavenly store. 
But the poor and needy sought him; he was 

now their faithful friend. 
And they knew, whatever befell them, on his love 

they might depend. 

9 J29 



BISHOP TROILUS 



So his closing days were happy, after years of 

sordid care, 
For no gain can bring contentment till the poor 

have had their share ; 
And he lightened many a burden, and he righted 

many a wrong. 
And the wealth became a blessing that had been 

a curse so long ; 
And his secret hoard was scattered, and men 

said that he died poor. 
But he found great wealth in heaven at the end, 

we may be sure. 



130 



rbc Cro98C9 on the Cdall 



131 



THIS tseautiful legend has for me a most peculiar 
interest, owing to the circumstances under which I 
first heard it. It was taught to me by a very dear 
young friend whom I had known and loved from his 
infancy, — Piero, the only surviving child of Count 
Giuseppe Pasolini Zanelli of Faenza. It was only last 
October — eight months ago — and we were all staying 
together in the home of his beloved and still beautiful 
grandmother, at Bassano, in the Veneto. It was the 
last evening that we expected to pass together, and 
Pierino (we had never been able to give up calling him 
by that childish diminutive) brought a book with him, 
a collection of popular legends compiled by De Guber- 
natis, and said that he had a story to read us. It was 
** The Crosses on the "Wall,^' and it has always seemed 
to me as though he read it on that particular evening 
to prepare us for what was to come. For some months 
he had been not quite so strong as usual, yet no one 
felt any particular apprehension, until on the twenty- 
eighth of November he died, almost without warning. 
He was twenty-two years old, of a very beautiful 
character, — so good that we ought to have known he 
was not for us. 

With him two great and ancient families come to an 
end, — the Pasolini-Zanclli of Faenza, and the Baroni- 
Semitecolo of Bassano : these last are the only descend- 
ants of that Semitecolo who worked in mosaic at 
Torcello. 



132 



Che Crosses on the ^att 

H Legend of primiero 



COME, children, listen to what I tell, 
For my words are wise to-day : 
From Primiero among the hills 
Was the legend brought away. 

And Primiero among the hills 

Is a little world apart, 

Where is much to love and much to learn, 

If you have a willing heart. 

It lies on high, like a stranded ship. 
From the parted wave of time ; 
Not far from the troubled world we know. 
But the way is hard to climb. 

For the mountains rise and close it in. 
With their walls of green and gray ; 
With crag and forest and smooth-worn cliff, 
Where the clouds alone can stray. 

J33 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

And when a house they have builded there. 
If a blessing they would win, 
Above the door do they write a prayer, 
That Christ may dwell therein. 

And I think, throughout the ancient town. 
On its steep ascending road, 
In many a heart, in many a home, 
Has He taken His abode. 

And when a burden is hard to bear — 
And such burdens come to all — 
They tell the story I 'm telling now. 
Of the crosses on the wall. 

'T is a pearl of wisdom, gathered far 
In the dim and distant past ; 
But ever needed, but ever new, 
As long as the world shall last. 

For never has been since earth was made. 

And surely shall never be, 

A man so happy or wise or great. 

He might from the cross be free. 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

The tale it is of a widow poor, 

And by trouble sorely pressed; 

Of how, through sorrow and many tears, 

At the end her soul was blest. 

She had not been always poor and sad, 
For her early years were bright. 
With a happy home, and with parents kind, 
And herself their hearts^ delight I 

A mother's darling, a father's pride, 
She was fair in form and face ; 
A sunny creature, a joy to all. 
For her sweet and winning grace* 

Then, early married to one she loved. 
She had still been shielded well ; 
For her he laboured, for her he thought. 
And on her no burden fell. 

She worked, indeed ; but what work was hers 
Through the short and happy hours ? 
To pluck the fruit from her orchard trees. 
Or to tend the garden flowers ; 

J35 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

To sit and spin, and to sing the while 
Li her porch with roses gay ; 
To spread the tabic ^^^th plenty piled, 
And to watch the children play. 

Their home was a little nest of peace ; 
*T was a niile beyond the tov.ii, 
In that sheltered valley, green "^-ith woods, 
"WTiere the river murmurs do-^Ti. 

And she never dreamed of change to come, 
vThough a change must all expect.) 
Till the blow, like lightning, on her fell, 
And her happy life was \^Tecked. 

But who could have thought the man would die ? 
There were few so strong as he ! 
From his forest work they bore him home. 
Struck dead by a falling tree. 

A petted child, and a wife belov^ed. 

She had hardly sorrow kno\^Ti, 

Till the strong, brave man was borne away. 

And she faced the world alone. 

l3o 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

Alone, with a babe too young to speak, 

And with other children five : 

** Oh, why," she asked, ''are the strong removed 

And the feeble left alive ? '' 

But where is the good of asking ivhyf 
When our helpers disappear ? 
That question never was answered yet. 
And it never will be, here. 

There was little time to sit and weep ; 
She must rise, and bear the strain ; 
Alone she stood, with the home to keep, 
And the children's bread to gain. 

The best of herself had gone with him; 
She had no more faith nor trust : 
She could not bow to the Lord's decree. 
For she felt it all unjust. 

The good Lord cares for a widow's need, 
But on Him she did not call. 
She laboured hard, and she fought with fate. 
And they lived — but that was all. 

137 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

She fought her battle Vv-ith fate, aiid failed. 
As many have failed before ; 
If against the thorns we push and press, 
They w)ll only prick the more. 

She could not bear u-ith the children now, 
And she called them rude and v.-ild ; 
Forgetting quite, in her sullen grief, 
That she had been once a child. 

Yes, "^'.'ild they were ; and like all "^-ild things 
They were light and swift and strong ; 
And her poor, sick spirit turned away 
From the gay, unruly throng. 

They swam the river, they climbed the trees. 
They were full of life and play ; 
But oft, when their mother* s voice they heard. 
They hid from her sight away. 

They did not love her, and that she knew. 

And of that she oft complained ; 

But not by threats nor by angry words 

Could the children's love be gained. 

133 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

Respect and honour we may command ; 
They will come at duty's call : 
But love, the beautiful thornless rose, 
Grows wild, when it grows at all. 

And she grew bitter, as time went on, 
Grew bitter and hard and sore, 
Till one day she cried in her despair, 
" I can bear my life no more I 

** Look down from Heaven, good Lord, and see 

And pity my cruel fate ! 

Oh, come, and in mercy take away 

My burden, for 't is too great I 

** My heart is breaking with all its load. 
And I feel my life decline ; 
Never I think did the woman live 
Who has borne a cross like mine I '' 

To her cry for help an answer came, 
And solemn it was, and strange I 
For a silence deep around her fell. 
And the place seemed all to change. 

J39 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

She s:cci in a sad and sombre room, 
"^licrc from ceiling dov.-n to floor. 
Along the "^'all and on every side. 
There \v'Tere crosses — nothing more. 

There were crosses old. and cresses new, 
There were crosses large and small : -- 
And in their midst there was One who stood 
As the IVIaster of them all. 

Before His presence her eyes dropped low. 

And her wild complaining died ; 

For she knew the cross that He had borne 

Was greater than all beside. 

And He bade her choose, and take a-^-ay. 

From among the many there. 
Another cross, in exchange for hers. 
That she found too great to bear. 

She looked for those that were least in size. 

And she quickly lifted one : 

But eh, *t was hea\w, and pained her more 

Than her ox^ti had ever done ! 

t40 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

She laid it back with a trembling hand — 
** And whose cross is that ? " she cried ; 
" For heavier 't is than even niine ! ** 
And a solann voice replied : 

" That cross belongs to a maiden young, 
But of youth she little knows ; 
For the days to her are days of pain, 
And the night brings scant repose. 

*^ A helpless, suffering, useless thing I 
And her pain will never cease, 
Till death in pity will come one day, 
And her troubles end in peace. 

** She never has walked the pleasant fields, 
Nor has sat beneath the trees ; 
The hospital wall that shuts her in 
Is the only world she sees. 

** She has no mother, she has no home. 
And in strangers^ hands she lies ; 
With none to care for her while she lives, 
Nor weep for her when she dies.^^ 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

** But why is the cross so small, my Lord, 
And why docs her heart not break ? ** 
** She counts it littlct" the answer came , 
** For she bears it for my sake.'^ 

The T^'idow bluslied \^4th a sudden shame; 
To her eyes the tears ai*ose : 
She dried them soon, and again she turned. 
And another cross she chose. 

It fell from her hand against the wall, 
And she let it there remain : 
** That cross shall never be mine/* she said, 
** Though I take my ot^ti again I 

" And whose is this that I cannot hold ? 
For it seems to burn my hand ! 
And never, 1 think, was heart so strong 
That could such a weight withstand,^* 

" The cross it is of a gentle -^^fe. 
And she wears it all unseen ; 
With early sorrow her hair is white. 
But she keeps a smile serene* 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

**She gave her heart to :in evil man, 
And she thought him good and true ; 
And long she trusted and long believed, 
But at last the truth she knew. 

" She knows that his soul is stained with crime, 
But the worst she still conceals ; 
Abuse and terror her sole reward, 
And the Lord knows what she feels I 

" She cannot leave him, for love dies hard, 
And her children bear his name ; 
But she prays for grace, to keep and guard 
Their innocent lives from shame. 

" She trembles oft when his step she hears 
On a lonely winter night ; 
And she hides her frightened babes afar 
From their cruel father^s sight. 

** And she dares not even hope for death. 
Though his hand might set her free : 
^T were well for her in the grave to rest ; 
But where would the children be ? ** 

U3 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

The widow shuddered, her face grew pale, 
And she no more turned to look: 
She reached her hand to the wall near by, 
And a cross by chance she took. 

*Twas not so large as the first had been, 
But it seemed a fearful weight ! 
**And whose am I holding now?" she asked. 
For it did not look so great. 

" A mother^s cross is the one you bear," 
So the voice in answer said, 
** And she once had children six like you ; 
But her children all are dead. 

" She has all besides that earth can give ; 
She has friends and wealth to spare. 
And house and land — but she counts them not, 
For the children are not there. 

** Time passes slowly, and she grows old; 
But she may not yet depart. 
In lonely splendour she counts the years, 
With an empty, hungry heart. 

144 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

** And she knows by whom the cross was sent, 
And she tries her head to bow ; 
But six green mounds by the churchyard wall 
Are the most she cares for now/* 

The widow thought of her own wild brood, 
And she felt a creeping chill ; 
And, " Oh, give me back my cross I " she said, 
" I will keep and bear it still. 

** Forgive me. Lord" (and with that she knelt. 
And for very shame she wept). 
** I know my sin, that I could not bow. 
Nor Thy holy will accept. 

" Oh, give me patience, for life is hard ; 
And the daily strength I need ! 
And by Thy grace I will try to bear 
The burden for me decreed. 

** 1 11 change my ways with the children now. 
Though they give me added cares. 
Poor babes ! I know, if they love me not, 
That the blame is mine, not theirs ! ** 

JO J45 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

She kept her word as the weeks went on, 
And she fought with fate no more : 
'Twas now with a patient, humble heart 
That her daily cross she bore* 

The children wondered to see her change 
So greatly in look and speech I 
She met them now with a smile so kind, 
And a gentle word for each. 

And soon they learned, from her altered ways, 
What her words had vainly taught; 
Their love, that long she had claimed in vain, 
Came back to her all unsought. 

There were merry shouts and dancing feet. 
When the mother came in sight ; 
There were little arms around her thrown, 
There were eyes with joy alight. 

With love for teacher, they learned to help. 
There was work for fingers small : 
Her heart grew soft like the earth in spring. 
And she thanked the Lord for all I 

146 



THE CROSSES ON THE WALL 

Her girls so pretty, her boys so brave, 
And so helpful all and kind ! 
She wondered often, and thought with shame 
Of how she had once repined. 

For in their presence she oft forgot 
Her burden of want and care, 
Forgot her trouble — forgot, almost, 
That she had a cross to bear I 



J47 



Suora JVIarianna 



J49 



Suora JMarianna 

LITTLE children, will you listen to a simple 
' tale of mine, 
That I learned at San Marcello, in the Tuscan 

Apennine, 
From an aged, saintly woman, gone to heaven 

long ago ? 
It has helped me on my journey, and as yet you 

cannot know 
Half the wisdom stored within it, nor the com- 
fort it can give ; 
But still, try and not forget it I You will need it 

if you live. 
And some day, when life is waning and your 

hands begin to tire, 
You will think of Marianna, and her vision by 

the fire. 

In a convent, old and quiet, near a little country 

town, 
On a chestnut-shaded hillside, to the river sloping 

down. 
Dwelt a few of those good sisters who go out 

among the poor, 

151 



SUORA MARIANNA 



Who must labour Lite and early, and inudi 

weariness endure ; 
And the one who did in pvitience and in all good 

works excel 
Was the Sister Marianna. she whose story now 

I tell. 

She was ever kind and willing, for each heavy 

task prep^ired : 
No one ever thought to spare her, and herself 

she never spared. 
All unpraised and all unnoticed, bearing burdens 

not her own. 
Yet she lived as rich and happy as a queen upon 

her throne I 

She was rich, though few would think it : for 
God gave her grace to choose^ 

Not the world's deceitful riches, but the wealth 
one cannot lose* 

There are many heap up treasure, but it is not 
every one 

Who will take his treasure with him when his 

earthly life is done, 
is: 



SUORA MARIANNA 



Was she bcatttiful ? I know not. She had eyes 

of peaceful lij^ht, 
And her face looked sweet and blooming in its 

frame of linen while. 
To the sick and heavy-hearted she was pleasant 

to behold. 
And she seemed a heavenly vision to the feeble 

and the old. 
She was happy when she wandered tip the wan- 

derinjy mountain road, 
Bearing food and warmth and blessing to some 

desolate abode, 
Though the ice-cold winds were blowing and 

her woman's strength was tried ; 
For she knew who walked there with her, in 

her heart and by her side. 
She was happy — oh, so happy I — in her little 

whitewashed cell 
Looking out among the branches, where they 

gave her leave to dwell 
In her scanty hours of leisure ; for there, looking 

from the wall. 
Were the dear and holy faces that she loved the 

best of all. 

J53 



SUORA MARIANNA 



'T was an old and faded picture, poorly painted 
at the best. 

Of Our Lord, the Holy Infant, in His Mother's 
arms at rest. 

But her faith and loving fancy had a glory to it 
lent. 

And the faces that she saw there were not what 
the artist meant. 

And the wooden shelf before it she would often- 
times adorn 

With the buttercup and bluebell, and the wild 
rose from the thorn, 

Which she gathered, when returning, while the 
morning dew was bright. 

From some home, remote and lonely, where she 
watched the sick by night. 

So her life was full of sunshine, for in toiling for 
the Lord 

She had found the hidden sweetness that in com- 
mon things lies stored : 

He has strewn the earth with flowers, and each 
eye their brightness sees ; 

But He filled their cups with honey, for His 
humble working bees. 

154 



U 



SUORA MARIANNA 



But there came a time — poor sister I — when her 

rosy cheek grew pale, 
And her eyes, with all their sunlight, seemed to 

smile as through a veil ; 
And her step was weak and heavy, as she trod 

the steep ascent. 
Where through weeks of wintry weather to her 

loving work she went. 
'T was a foot-path, lone and narrow, winding 

up among the trees, 
And ^t was hard to trace in winter, when the 

slippery ground would freeze, 
And the snow fall thick above it, hiding every 

sign and mark ; 
But she went that way so often she could climb 

it in the dark I 
'T was to nurse a poor young mother, by fierce 

malady assailed, 
That she made the daily journey, and she never 

once had failed. 
Now the short sharp days were over, and the 

spring had just begun ; 
Every morn the light came sooner, and more 

strength was in the sun. 

J55 



SUORA MARIANNA 



All around the grass was springing, and its ten- 
der verdure spread. 

Mid the empty burrs of chestnuts, and the old 
leaves, brown and dead, 

Low and small, but creeping, creeping till it al- 
most touched the edge 

Of the daily lessening snow-drifts, under rock 
or thorny hedge. 

From the wreck of last yearns autumn life 
awakened, strong and new. 

And the buds were crowding upward, though as 
yet the flowers were few. 

Many nights had she been watching, and with 
little rest by day, 

For her heart was in the chamber where that 
helpless woman lay ; 

There the flame of life she cherished, when it 
almost ceased to burn. 

Praying God to help and keep them till the hus- 
band should return. 

*Twas the old and common story, such as all of 
us can hear, 

156 



SUORA MARIANNA 



If we care to, in the mountains, every day 

throughout the year ! 
She who languished, weak and wasting, in the 

garret chamber there. 
Had been once as strong and happy as the wild 

birds in the air. 
She had been a country beauty, for the boys to 

serenade; 
And the poets sang about her, in the simple 

rhymes they made. 
And with glowing words compared her to the 

lilies as they grew. 
Or to stars, or budding roses, as their manner is 

to do. 
Then the man who played at weddings with 

his ancient violin. 
With his sad, impassioned singing, had contrived 

her heart to win ; 
And one brilliant April morning he had brought 

her home, a bride, 
To his farm and low-built cottage on the moun- 
tain's terraced side. 
'T was a poor, rough home to look at, and from 

neighbours far away, 

157 



SUORA MARIANNA 



But with love and health and music there was 

much to make it gay. 
They were happy, careless people, and they 

thought not to complain, 
Though the door were cracked and broken, or 

the roof let in the rain : 
They could pile the fire with branches, while the 

winter storms swept by; 
For the rest, their life was mostly out beneath 

the open sky. 

Time had come, and brought its changes, — sun- 
shine first, and then the shade. 

Frost untimely, chestnuts blighted. Sickness 
came, and debts were made ; * < 

Fields were sold, alas, to pay them; yet their 
troubles did not cease. 

And the poor man's heart was troubled thus to 
see his land decrease I 

Fields were gone, and bread was wanting, for 
there now were children small ; 

Much he loved them, much he laboured — but 
he could not feed them all. 



J58 



SUORA MARIANNA 



So he left thcni, hcav^y-hcartcd^ and his fortune 

went to try 
In the low Maremma cotintry, where men gain 

or where they die, 
With its soft and treacherous beauty, with its 

fever-laden air ; 
But as yet the fever spared him, and they hoped 

it yet would spare. 
nr was a long and cruel winter in the home he 

left behind : 
Lonely felt the house without him, and the young 

w4fe moped and pined : 
Still her children's love sustained her, till this 

sickness laid her low ; 
When good Sister Marianna came to nurse her, 

as you know. 

Week on week had hope been waning, as more 

feeble still she grew : 
Marianna tried, but vainly, every simple cure she 

knew. 
Then the doctor gave up hoping, and his long 

attendance ceased : 



}59 



SUORA MARIANNA 



^^I can do no more/^ he told her; ^^you had 

better call the priest. 
To her husband I have written ; he will have the 

news to-day : 
If he cares again to see her, he had best be on 

his way ! ** 

Now the priest has done his office ; at the open 

door he stands, 
And he says to Marianna : ** I can leave her in 

your hands, — 
I have other work that calls me ; if to-night she 

chance to die, 
You can say the prayers, good sister, for her 

soul as well as V* 

So they left her, all unaided, in the house forlorn 

and sad. 
Still to watch and think and labour with what 

failing strength she had. 
There was none to share her burden, none to 

speak to, none to see — 
Save a helpful boy of seven, and a restless one 

of three, 

160 



SUORA MARIANNA 



And their little dark-eyed sister (she was five, 

and came between), 
And a baby, born that winter, which the father 

had not seen. 

Two days more I Her friend lay sleeping, and 

she watched beside the bed : 
In her arms she rocked the baby, while the Latin 

prayers she said, — 
Prayers to help a soul departing; — yet she never 

quite despaired I 
Might not yet the Lord have pity, and that 

mother^s life be spared? 
'T was so hard to see her going — such a mother, 

kind and dear I 
There was ne'er another like her in the country, 

far or near I 
(So thought Sister Marianna.) Yet to murmur 

were a sin. 
But her tears kept rising, rising, though she tried 

to hold them in, 
Till one fell and lay there shining, on the head 

that she caressed. 

Small and pretty, dark and downy, lying warm 

against her breast, 
n 161 



SUORA MARIANNA 



She was silent ; something moved her that had 

neither place nor part 
In the grave and stately cadence of the prayers 

she knew by heart. 
Then she spoke, with eyes dilated, with her soul 

in every word. 
As to one she saw before her — "Thou hast 

been a child, my Lord ! 
Thou hast Iain as small and speechless as this 

infant on my knees ; 
Thou hast stretched toward Thy Mother little 

helpless hands like these : 
Thou hast known the wants of children, then — 

Oh, listen to my plea. 
For one moment, Lord, remember what Thy 

Mother was to Thee I 
Think, when all was dark around Thee, how 

her love did Thee enfold ; 
How she tended, how she watched Thee ; how 

she wrapped Thee from the cold I 
How her gentle heart was beating, on that night 

of tears and strife. 
When the cruel guards pursued Thee, when 

King Herod sought Thy life I 

162 



SUORA MARIANNA 



How her arms enclosed and hid Thee, through 

that midnight journey wild I 
Oh, for love of Thine own Mother, save the 

mother of this child I ** 

Now she paused and waited breathless ; for she 

seemed to know and feel 
That the Lord was there, and listened to her 

passionate appeal. 
Then she bowed her head, all trembling ; but a 

light was in her eye. 
For her soul had heard the answer : that young 

mother would not die I 
Yes, the prayer of faith had saved her I And a 

change began that day : 
When she woke her breath was easy, and the 

pain had passed away. 
So the day that dawned so sadly had a bright 

and hopeful close, 
And a solemn, sweet thanksgiving from the 

sister's heart arose. 

Now the night had closed around them, and a 
lonesome night it seemed I 

J63 



SUORA MARIANNA 



For the sky was black and starless^ and for hours 
the rain had streamed : 

And the ^^'ind and rain together made a wild 
and mournful diii. 

As they beat on door and v.4ndow. madly strug- 
gling to come in. 

Marianna, faint and weary v.Sth the strain of 

many da)-^ 
On the broad stone hearth was kneeling, wliile 

she set the fire abla;:e. 
For the poor lone soul she cared for v.'ould, ere 

morning, need to eat. 
** Now, God help me/* s»ud the sister. *' tliis 

night's laboiir to complete ! ** 
*T was a me*vl she knew would please her, 

wliich she lovingly prepared. 
Of that best aiid chosen portion, from the con- 
vent table spared. 
Which she brought, as \s'as her habit, with much 

other needed store, 
Li the worn old -^-illow basket, standing near her 

on the floor. 



)p4 



SUORA MARIANNA 



On her work was much depending, so she 

planned to do her best ; 
And she set the earthen pitcher on the coals as 

in a nest, 
With the embers laid around it; then she thought 

again, and cast 
On the pile a few gray ashes, that it might not 

boil too fast. 
But the touch of sleep was on her, she was 

dreaming while she planned. 
And the wooden spoon kept falling from her limp 

and listless hand. 
Then she roused her, struggling bravely with 

this languor, which she viewed 
As a snare, a sore temptation, to be fought with 

and subdued. 
But another fear assailed her — what if she 

should faint or fall ? 
And to-night the storm-swept cottage seems so 

far away from all I 
How the fitful wind is moaning I And between 

the gusts that blow, 
She can hear the torrent roaring, in the deep 

ravine below. 

i65 



SUORA MARIANNA 



And her head is achiiig strangely, as it never did 

before : 
'* Good Lord, help me 1 " she is saying : ** this 

can last but little more I 

my blessed Lord and Master, only help mc 

tlirough the night — 
Only keep my eyes from closing till they see 

the morning light I 
For that mother and that baby do so weak and 

helpless lie, 
And with only me to serve them, — if I leave 

them, they may die I 
She is better — yes, I know it, but a touch may 

turn the saxlc 

1 can send for help to-morrow, but to-night I 

must not fail I " 
'T was in vain ; for sleep had conquered, and the 

words slie tried to say 
First became a drowsy murmtir, then grew faint 

aiid died away. 
And she slept as sleep the weary, heedless how 

the night went on. 
With her pitcher all untendcd, with her labour 

all undone; 

lb6 



SUORA MARIANNA 



On the wall her head reclming, iii the chimney's 

empty space, 
While the firelight flared and flickered on her pale 

and peaceful face. 
Was her humble prayer unanswered ? Oh, the 

Lord has many a way 
That His children little think of, to send answers 

when they pray I 
It was long she sat there sleeping — do you think 

her work was spoiled ? 
No, the fir-wood fire kept burning, and the 

pitcher gently boiled : 
Ne'er a taint of smoke had touched it, nor one 

precious drop been spilt ; 
When she moved and looked around her, with a 

sudden sense of guilt. 
But her eyes, when first they opened, saw a 

vision, strange and sweet. 
For a little Child was standing on the hearth- 
stone at her feet. 
And He seemed no earthly infant, for His robe 

was like the snow. 
And a glory shone about Him that was not the 

firelight glow. 

167 



SUORA MARIANNA 



And Himself her work was doing ! For He kept 

the fire alive, 
And He watched the earthen pitcher, that no 

danger might arrive 
To the simple meal, now ready, with the coals 

around it piled ; 
Then He turned His face toward her, and she 

knew the Holy Child. 
'T was her Lord who stood before her ! And 

she did not slirink nor start — 
There was more of joy than wonder in her all- 
believing heart. 
When her willing hands were weary, when her 

patient eyes were dosed. 
He had finished all she failed in, He had watched 

while she reposed. 
Do you ask of His appearance ? Human words 

are weak and cold ; 
*T is enough to say she knew Him — that is all 

she ever told. 
Yes, as you and I will know Him when that 

happy day shall come, 
When, if we on earth have loved Him, He will 

bid us welcome home ! 



SUORA MARIANNA 



But with that one look He left her, and the vision 

all had passed, 
(Though the peace it left within her to her dying 

hour would last I) 
Storm had ceased, and wind was silent, there 

was no more sound of rain. 
And the morning star was shining through the 

window's broken pane. 

Later, when the sun was rising, Marianna looked 

to see. 
O'er the stretch of rain-washed country, what 

the day was like to be. 
While the door she softly opened, letting in the 

morning breeze, 
As it shook the drops by thousands from the 

wet and shining trees. 
And she saw the sky like crystal, for the clouds 

had rolled away. 
Though they lay along the valleys, in their folds 

of misty grey. 
Or to mountain sides were dinging^ tattered 

relics of the storm. 
And among the trees below her she could see a 

moving form ; j69 



SUORA MARIANNA 



'T was the husband home returning, yes, thank 
God ! he came at last : 

There was no one else would hasten up that 
mountain road so fast. 

Now the drooping boughs concealed him, now 
he came in sight again; 

All night long had he been walking in the dark- 
ness, in the rain ; 

Through the miles of ghostly forest, through the 
villages asleep. 

He had borne his burden bravely, till he reached 
that hillside steep; 

And as yet he seemed not weary, for his spring- 
ing step was light. 

But his face looked worn and haggard with the 
anguish of the night. 

Now his limbs began to tremble, and he walked 
with laboured breath. 

For he saw his home before him, should he find 
there life or death ? 

How his heart grew faint within him as he 
neared the wished-for place I 

One step more, his feet had gained it, they were 
standing face to face. 

170 



SUORA MARIANNA 



** God has helped us ! ** was her answer to the 
question in his eye; 

And her smile of comfort told him that the dan- 
ger had gone by. 

It was morning now, fair morning! and the 

broken sunlight fell 
Through the boughs that crossed above her, 

where the buds began to swell, 
As adown the sloping pathway, that her feet so 

oft had pressed. 
Went the Sister Marianna to her convent home 

to rest. 
It was' spring that breathed around her, for the 

winter strove no more. 
And the snowdrifts all had vanished with the 

rain the night before. 
Now a bee would flit beside her, as she lightly 

moved along; 
Or a bird among the branches tried a few low 

notes of song. 
But her heart had music sweeter than the bird- 
notes in her ears ! 
She was leaving joy behind her in that home of 

many tears : jyi 



SUORA MARIANNA 



Hope was there, and health returning; there 

were happy voice and smile, 
For the father at his coming had brought plenty 

for a while. 
And she knew with whom she left them, for 

herself His care had proved, 
When her mortal eyes were opened, and she saw 

the face she loved, 
On that night of storm and trouble, when to help 

her He had come. 
As He helped His own dear Mother in their 

humble earthly home. 

As she went the day grew warmer; sweeter 
came the wild bird^s call ; 

Then, what made her start and linger ? 'T was 
a perfume, that was all : 

Faint, but yet enough to tell her that the violets 
were in bloom ; 

And she turned aside to seek them, for that pic- 
ture in her room. 



172 



'Cbc Lupins 



J73 



THE simple story of " The Lupins ^ is very com- 
monly known among the country people, who 
often quote it as a remedy for discontent. 



174 



Cbe Lupins 



^'T* WAS a day in late November, 

JL When the fruits were gathered in ; 
Day to dream in, and remember 
All the beauty that had been. 

Peacefully the year was dying; 
Soft the air, and deep the blue ; 
Brown and bare the fields were lying, 
Where the summer harvest grew. 

Autumn flowers had bloomed and seeded ; 
Yet a few of humblest kind. 
Waiting till they most were needed. 
Brought the pleasant days to mind. 

Here and there a red-tipped daisy 
Still its small bright face would show ; 
While above the distance hazy 
Rose the mountains, white with snow. 

J75 



THE LUPINS 



With a light subdued and tender, 
Shone the sun on vale and hill, 
Where the faded autumn splendour 
Left a sober sweetness still. 

By a road that wandered, winding, 
Far among the hills away, 
Walked a man, despondent, finding 
Little comfort in the day. 

Pale of tint and fine of feature. 
Formed with less of strength than grace. 
Seldom went a sadder creature. 
Seeking work from place to place. 

He from noble race descended. 
Heir to wealth and honoured name. 
Who had oft the poor befriended 
When about his door they came. 

By a brother^s evil doing 
Had to poverty been brought : 
Now his listless way pursuing. 
Ever on the past he thought. 

I To 



THE LUPINS 



He, to hope no longer clinging, 
Driftedt led he knew not where. 
By a sound of far-off singing 
Floating in the dreamy air, — 

Many voices sweetly blending, 
Sounding o^er the hills remote. 
Every verse the same, and ending 
In one plaintive, long-drawn note. 

" Olive gatherers, I know them. 
Singing songs from tree to tree ; 
If the road will lead me to them. 
There arc food and work for me/' 

He a humble meal was making. 
While he warmed him in the sun ; 
From his pocket slowly taking 
Yellow lupins, one by one. 

Most forlorn he felt and lonely. 
While he ate them on the way ; 
For those lupins, and they only. 
Were his food for all the day. 

12 177 



THE LUPINS 



Since to shame his brother brought him^ 
Want had often pressed him sore ; 
Yet misfortune never brought him 
Quite so low as this before I 

** If my lot be hard and painful, 
There *s one comfort still for me ; ** 
(Said he, with a smile disdainful,) 
** Poorer, I can never be. 

** There 's no lower step to stand on, 
No more burning shame to feel ; 
Not a crust to lay my hand on. 
Only lupins for a meal I ** 

He could see the laden table 
Where his parents used to dine : 
Well for them who were not able 
Then the future to divine. 

Oh, but he was glad God took them 
Ere they saw him fall so low : 
How their cherished hope forsook them. 
They had never lived to know. 

J78 



THE LUPINS 



** \f so dearly loved and cared for, 
I, on whom such hopes were built, 
Whom such blessings were prepared for - 
Ruined by a brother^s guilt I ** 

Now he wrung his hands despairing, 
Stamped his foot upon the ground ; 
Bitter thoughts his heart were tearing, — 
When he heard a footstep sound. 

Then he started, sobered quickly. 
Took an attitude sedate. 
With that terror, faint and sickly, 
Which he often felt of late. 

What if some old friend should find him ? 
But he turned, the story tells. 
And he saw a man behind him. 
Picking up the lupin shells ; 

Picking up the shells and eating 
What the other cast away. 
Now abashed, their eyes were meeting : 
*T was a beggar, worn and gray, 

J79 



THE LUPINS 



Hollow-eyed and thin and wasted ; 
By his look you might suppose, 
He had ne'er a morsel tasted 
Since the sun that morning rose. 

Stood the younger man astonished, 
And no more bewailed his fate ; 
Only bowed his head, admonished 
By the sight of want so great. 

Then he said : ** Come here, my brother. 
And the lupins we will share ; 
Maybe, if we help each other, 
God will have us in His care/* 

" Thank the Lord ! and you, kind master ! 
May He help you in your need ; 
Save your soul from all disaster 
And remember your good deed ! ** 

Said the beggar, smiling brightly. 
And the other thus replied, — 
Now content, and walking lightly 
By his poorer neighbour's side, — 

}80 



THE LUPINS 



** Friend, you have a blessing brought me, 
And I thank you in my turn, 
For a lesson you have taught me 
Which I needed much to Iearn« 

** And henceforth will I endeavour 
Not to pine for fortune high, 
But remember there is ever 
Some one lower down than I. 

" But alas, when I was younger. 
Wealth and honoured state were mine ; 
Shame, my friend, is worse than hunger : 
*T is for this that I repine/* 

Then the beggar rose up stately. 
Looked the other in the face. 
Saying (for he wondered greatly), 
** Poverty is no disgrace ; 

" For our Lord, I think, was poorer 
Once than you or even I, 
And His poor of Heaven are surer 
Than the rich who pass them by/* 

J8J 



THE LUPINS 



So the two went on together, 
Casting on the Lord their care, 
Happy in the balmy weather, 
Happy in their simple fare. 

Now an ancient olive o^er them 
Threw its slender lines of shade. 
Bending low its boughs before them. 
Silver-leafed that cannot fade ; 

Bearing fruit in winter season, 
Still through every change the same : 
Tree of peace — they had good reason 
Who have called it by that name I 

And with that the story leaves them ; 
You can end it as you please: 
Gain that cheers, or loss that grieves them, 
Life of toil, or life of ease. 

Did some fortune unexpected 
Give to one his wealth again? 
Or did both, forlorn, neglected. 
End their days in want and pain ? 

t82 



THE LUPINS 



Many years have they been dwelling 
Where such trifles of the way 
Are not counted worth the telling I 
Both are with the Lord to-day. 

He in whom their souls confided 
Did for both a home prepare ; 
Yet that humble meal divided 
Gives a blessing even there. 



183 



Zhc Silver Cross 



185 



THE story of " St. Caterina of Siena and her Silver 
Cross'' is one of her many visions, recorded by 
her confessor. 



1&6 



Cbc Silver Cross 



THROUGH the streets of old Siena, at the 
dawning of the day. 
Went the holy Caterina, as the bells began to 

sound ; 
With the light of peace celestial in her eyes of 

olive gray, 
For her soul was with the angels, while her feet 
were on the ground. 

She was fair as any lily, with as delicate a grace; 

And the air of early morning had just tinged her 
cheek with rose : 

Yet one hardly thought of beauty in that pale, 
illumined face. 

That the souls in trouble turned to, finding com- 
fort and repose. 

And the men their heads uncovered, though they 
dared not speak her praise, 

When they saw her like a vision down the nar- 
row street descend ; 



187 



THE SILVER CROSS 



And they wondered what she looked at, with 

that far-off dreamy gaze, 
While her lips were often moving, as though 

talking to a friend. 

There were few abroad so early, and she scarcely 

heard a sound. 
Save the cooing of the pigeons, as about her feet 

they strayed, 
Or the bell that sweetly called her to the church 

where she was bound ; 
While the palaces around her stood in silence 

and in shade. 



And the towers built for warfare rose about her, 
dark and proud. 

But their summits caught a glory, as the morn- 
ing onward came, 

And the summer sky beyond them was alight 
with fleecy cloud. 

Where the gray of dawn was changing, first to 
rose and then to flame. 



J 88 



THE SILVER CROSS 



By a shrine of the Madonna, at a comer where 

she passed, 
Stood a stranger leaning on it, as though weary 

and forlorn. 
With a bundle slung behind him and a cloak 

about him cast ; 
For he shivered in the freshness of the pleasant 

summer morn. 



Said the stranger, ** Will you help me ? ** and 

she looked on him and knew. 
By his hand that trembled feebly as he held it 

out for aid, 
By his eyes that were so heavy, and his lips of 

ashen hue. 
That the terrible Maremma had its curse upon 

him laid. 

So she listened to his story, that was pitiful to 

hear. 
Of a widowed mother waiting on the mountain 

for her son ; 



J89 



THE SILVER CROSS 



How to help her he had laboured till the sum- 
mer time drew near, 

And of how the fever took him just before his 
work was done. 

He was young and he was hopeful, and the smile 

began to come 
In his eyes, as though they thanked her for the 

pity she bestowed. 
And he said: "I shall recover if I reach my 

mountain home. 
And if some good Christian people will but help 

me on the road. 



** For I go to Casentino, where the air is pure 

and fine. 
But my strength too often fails me, and the place 

is far away ; 
So I pray you give me something, for a little 

bread and wine. 
That I may not set out fasting on my weary 

walk to-day/* 



J90 



THE SILVER CROSS 



Then a certain faint confusion with her pity 

seemed to blend, 
And her face, so sweet and saintly, showed the 

shadow of a cloud, 
As she said: ** I am no lady, though you call me 

so, my friend. 
But a poor Domenicana who to poverty am 

vowed. 

« 

" I can give a prayer to help you on your journey, 

nothing more. 
For these garments I am wearing are the sister- 

hood^s, not mine, 
And the very bread they gave me when I left 

the convent door 
To a beggar by the wayside I this morning did 

consign. 

** I would give you all you ask for if I had it to 

command.** 
Then she sighed and would have left him, but 

the stranger made her stay. 



m 



THE SILVER CROSS 



For he held her by the mantle, with his cold and 

wasted hand : 
** For the love of Christ, my lady, do not send 

me thus awayT' 

He had used the name unthinking, but it moved 

her none the less. 
And she turned again toward him, with a 

softened, solemn air. 
While her hand began to wander up and down 

her simple dress. 
As though vaguely it were seeking for some 

trifle she could spare. 

Then the rosary she lifted that was hanging at 

her waist. 
And its silver cross unfastened, which was small 

and very old. 
With the edges worn and rounded and the image 

half effaced. 
Yet she loved it more than lady ever loved a 

cross of gold. 



J92 



THE SILVER CROSS 



It had been her life companion^ in the tempest, in 

the calm ; 
She had held it to her bosom when she prayed 

with troubled mind ; 
And she kissed it very gently, as she laid it in 

his palm, 
"For the love of Christ, then, take it; 'tis the 

only thing I find/* 

So he thanked her and departed, and she thought 

of him no more, 
Save to ask the Lord to help him, when that day 

in church she prayed ; 
But the cross of Caterina on his heart the stranger 

wore. 
And her presence unforgotten like a blessing with 

him stayed. 

« 

Now the city life is stirring, and the streets are 

in the sun. 
And the bells ring out their music o'er the busy 

town again, 

13 193 



THE SILVER CROSS 



As the people slowly scatter from the church 

where Mass is done ; 
But the blessed Caterina in her seat did still 

remain. 

For the sleep divine was on her, which so often 

to her came, 
When of mortal life the shadow from around her 

seemed to fall ; 
And she looked on things celestial with her 

happy soul aflame : 
But that day the dream that held her was the 

sweetest of them all. 

For the Lord appeared in glory, and he seemed 
to her to stand 

In a chamber filled with treasures such as eye 
had never seen ; 

And a cross of wondrous beauty He was hold- 
ing in His hand. 

Set with every stone most precious and with 
pearls of light serene. 



J94 



THE SILVER CROSS 



And He told her that those treasures were the 

presents He received 
From the souls on earth who love Him, and are 

seeking Him to please. 
Were they deeds of noble service ? that was what 

she first believed. 
And she thought, ** What happy people who can 

bring Him gifts like these ! ** 

For herself could offer nothing, and she sighed 

to think how far 
From the best she ever gave him were the gems 

in that bright store. 
But He held the cross toward her, that was 

shining like a star. 
And He bade her look and tell Him had she seen 

it e*er before. 

"No,** she answered humbly, ^' never did my 

eyes the like behold.'^ 
But a flood of sudden sweetness came upon her 

like a wave, 



J95 



THE SILVER CROSS 



For she saw among the jewels and the work of 

beaten gold 
Was the little Cross of Silver that for love of 

Christ she gave. 



And I think her dream that morning was a mes- 
sage from above, 

That a proof of deepest meaning we might learn 
and understand, — 

Though our very best be worthless that we 
give for Jesus' love, 

It will change and turn to glory when He takes 
it in His hand. 



196 



Vhc Xlears of Repentance 



197 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE I found in a 
book called Maravigtie di Dio ne' Saoi Santi, by the 
Jesuit Father, Padre Carlo Gregorio Rosignoli, printed 
at Bologna in 1696, He says it was written originally 
by Theophiltis Raynaudus* 



J98 



Cbe Cears of Repentance 



Part First 
THE MOUNTAIN 

A WILD, sad story I tell to-day, 
And I pray you to listen all ! 
You cannot think how my heart is moved 
As the legend I recall, — 

The legend that made me weep so oft, 
When I was a child like you I 
I tell it now, in my lifers decline. 
And it brings the tears anew. 

It came to us down through ages long ; 
For this story had its scene 
In the far-away, gorgeous, stormy days 
Of the empire Byzantine. 

And it tells of a famous mountain chief, 
A terrible, fierce brigand. 
Who ravaged the country, far and wide. 
At the head of an armed band. 

199 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

So hard of heart was this evil man 

That he spared not young nor old : 

He killed and plundered, and burned and spoiled, 

In his maddening thirst for gold; 

Would come with a swoop on a merchant troop, 
That peacefully went its way. 
And the counted gains of a journey long 
Were scattered in one short day ! 

He knew no pity, he owned no law. 
Nor human, nor yet divine ; 
Would take the gold from a Prince's chest. 
Or the lamp from a wayside shrine. 

In hidden valley, in wild ravine, 
On desolate, heath-grown hill. 
He buried his treasure away from sight. 
And most of it lies there still. 

And none were free in that land to dwell. 
Except they a tribute paid ; 
For the robber chief, who was more than king. 
Had this burden on them laid. 

200 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

If any dared to resist the claim, 
He was met with vengeance dire ; 
His lands were wasted before the dawn. 
And his harvest burned with fire. 

And some day maybe himself was slain, 
And left in the road to lie ; 
To fill with terror the quaking heart 
Of the next who journeyed by. 

And many fled to the towns afar, 
And their fields were left untilled ; 
While want and trouble and trembling fear 
Had the stricken country filled. 

High up on a mountain's pathless side 
Had the robber made his den. 
In a rocky cave, where he reigned supreme 
Over twenty lawless men. 

A price had long on his head been set. 
But for that he little cared ; 
For few were they who could climb the way, 
And fewer were those who dared. 

201 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

For those who hunted him long before 
Had a fearful story brought : 
They were not men on the mountain side, 
But demons who with them fought I 

For horrible forms arose, they said, 

As if from the earth they grew ; 

And rolled down rocks from the cliffs above 

On any who might pursue. 

From town to town and from land to land. 
Had his evil fame been spread ; 
And voices lowered and lips grew grave 
When the hated name they said. 

The peopIe*s heart had grown faint with fear, 
And they thought no hope remained ; 
But hope again on their vision dawned. 
When the Emperor's ear they gained. 

Mauritius reigned o'er the nations then ; 
He was great in warlike fame. 
And he was not one to shrink or quake 
At a mountain bandit's name. 

202 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

He sent a band of a hundred strong 
For the troubled land^s release, 
To kill the man and his bloody crew, 
And to give the country peace. 

For what was a robber chief to him ? 
He had conquered mighty kings ; 
He gave the order, and then 't was done. 
And he thought of other things. 

But few, alas, of that troop returned. 
And they told a ghostly tale ; 
And women wept, and the strongest men. 
As they heard, grew mute and pale. 

Those soldiers oft in the war had been. 
And they counted danger light ; 
From mortal foe had they never turned. 
But with demons who could fight ? 

The Emperor silent was and grave, 
For his thoughts were deep and wise ; 
He saw that the robber chief was one 
Whom he could not well despise. 

203 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

There might be reason in what they said, 
That the demons gave him aid, 
And earthly weapon would ne^er be found 
That could make such foes afraid. 

But yet they will flee from sacred things, 
And the martyred saints, he knew. 
Have holy virtue, that to them clings. 
That can all their spells undo. 

But how could such weapon reach the soul 
That for years had owned their sway ? 
A question grave that he pondered long ; 
But at length he found a way. 

A reliquary he made prepare ; 

It was all of finest gold : 

For as monarch might with monarch treat. 

He would serve this bandit bold. 

The gold was his, but the work he gave 
To the skilled and patient hand 
Of an artist monk, who counted then 
For the first in all the land. 

204 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

Now see him close to his labour bent, 
In a cell remote and high, 
Where all he saw of the world without 
Was a square of roof and sky. 

A holy man was this artist monk, 
And for gain he did not ask, 
If only the Lord his work would bless, 
For his heart was in the task. 

And day by day from his touch came forth 
The image of holy things ; 
The cross was there, and the clustered vine, 
And the dove with outspread wings, — 

The dove that bore in her golden beak 
The olive in sign of peace, — 
And still, as he wrought, his hand kept time 
To the prayer that would not cease ! 

For pity stirred in him when he thought 
Of that dark and stormy breast. 
So hard, so hopeless, from God so far, 
Where the little shrine would rest. 

205 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

And perhaps if angels were looking on, 
(And I doubt not some were there!) 
They saw that the work was sown with pearls, 
And each pearl a burning prayer. 

So weeks went on, and the shrine was done. 
And within it, sealed and closed. 
Were holy relics of martyred saints 
Who near in the church reposed. 

And trusted messengers bore it forth 
To the distant mountain land ; 
With such a weapon they need not fear ; 
They could meet the famed brigand. 

*Twas winter now on the mountain-side, 
And the way was long and hard. 
As the faithful envoys upward toiled 
In their bandit escort's guard, — 

Toiled up to a grove of ancient firs. 
For that was the place designed. 
Where, after parley and long delay, 
Had the meeting been combined. 

206 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

No sound but their feet that crushed the snow, 
And the world looked sad and dead ; 
They thought of lives on the mountain lost, 
And it was not much they said. 

The sun, as it shone with slanting ray 
Through the stripped and silent trees. 
Could melt but little the clinging ice 
Which to-night again would freeze. 

They reached the grove, and the chief was there. 
Like a king in savage state; 
Erect and fearless, above them all. 
While his men around him wait. 

He stood before them like what he was, 
A terrible beast of prey ; 
But even tigers have something grand. 
And he looked as grand as they. 

But, oh, the look that he on them turned I 
It was fearful to behold ; 
It chilled their hearts, but they did not shrink. 
For their faith had made them bold. 

207 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

And looking straight in those gloomy eyes, 
With their hard and cruel glare, 
** We come/' said one, ** in the Emperor's name, 
And from him a token bear/' 

Then said the chief, with a mocking smile, 
** And what may my Lord command ? " 
And made a sign with his evil eye. 
For the men on guard to stand. 

No faith had he in a tale so wild. 
And he somewhat feared a snare; 
There might be others in hiding near, 
But he did not greatly care. 

Then forth came he who the relics bore, — 
'T was a prudent man and brave, — 
And into the hand that all men feared. 
He the holy token gave. 

** This gift to you has the Emperor sent, 
In token of his good will," 
He said ; and at first the fierce brigand 
Stood in wonder, hushed and still. 

208 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

What felt he then as that holy thing 

In his guilty hand he took ? 

What changed his face for a mementos time 

To an almost human look ? 

fv There lay the shrine in his open palm, 
I Yet he thought it could not be : 

** For me ? ** he asked, but his voice was strange. 

And again he said, ** for me ? ** 

Three times the messenger told his tale. 
And he said ^t was all he knew ; 
The bandit looked at the wondrous work, 
And he could not doubt *t was true. 

So over his neck the chain he hung. 
The shrine on his bosom lay 
With all its weakh of a thousand prayers ; 
And they were not cast away. 

Day followed day in the bandit's cave. 
And a restless man was he ; 
A heart so hard and so proud as his 
With the saints could ill agree. 

14 209 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

The holy relics that on it lay 
Did a strange confusion make ; 
In all that most he had loved before, 
He could no more pleasure take. 

A charm there was in the golden shrine 
That had all his soul possessed ; 
He sat and looked at each sacred sign 
With a dreamy sense of rest, 

*T was not the gold that could soothe him thus, 
And ^t was not the work so fine : 
*T was the holy soul of the artist monk, 
For it lived in every line. 

Like one who sleeps when the day begins, 
And, before his slumbers end, 
The morning light and the morning sounds 
With his dreaming fancies blend ; 

So now and then would his heart be stirred 
By a feeling strange and new. 
And thoughts he never had known before 
In his mind unconscious grew. 

210 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

Till on a sudden his blinding pride, 
Like a bubble, failed and broke ; 
With eyes wide open, the guilty man 
From his life-long dream awoke. 

From graves forgotten his crimes came forth, 
In his face they seemed to stare : 
To all one day will such waking come ; 
God grant it be here, not there. 

Then wild remorse on his heart took hold. 
And beneath its burning sting 
He shrank from himself as one might shrink 
From a venomous, hateful thing. 

For scenes of blood from the years gone by 
Forever before him came ; 
He closed his eyes, and his face he hid. 
But he saw them just the same. 

And in the horror he dared not pray. 
For he felt his soul accurst. 
And he feared to live, and he feared to die. 
And he knew not which was worst. 

2U 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

Yet far on high, and beyond his reach, 
He could see a vision dim, 
A far-off glory of peace and love ; 
But he felt *t was not for him. 

Awhile his trouble he hid from all, 
For his will was iron strong. 
But never was man, since man was made. 
Who could bear such torment long. 

A strange, sick longing was growing up 
In his spirit, day by day, 
A longing for what he most had feared, — 
To let justice have her way ; 

Until the will to a purpose grew. 
To the Emperor^s feet to fly. 
To own his sin without prayer or plea. 
And then give up all and die. 

And so one night, without sound or word. 
Away in the dark he stole. 
And all that he took for his journey long 
Was the weight of a burdened soul. 

212 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

They waited long in that den of crime. 
But they saw their chief no more ; 
Or dead or living, they found him not. 
Though they searched the mountain o'er. 

And in the country, so long oppressed. 
When his sudden flight was known. 
They spoke of a wild and fearful night. 
When the fiends had claimed their own. 

And soon the tale to a legend turned. 
And men trembling used to tell 
Of how they carried him, body and soul. 
To the place where demons dwell. 

His men, so bold, were in mortal fear 
Of what might themselves befall ; 
So some in a convent refuge sought. 
And the rest were scattered all. 

And no one climbed to their empty cave. 
For *t was called a haunted place, 
Though soon the summer had swept away 
Of its horror every trace. 

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THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

And mountain strawberries nestled low, 
And delicate harebells hung, 
In beauty meek, from its broken arch, 
Where the swallows reared their young. 

But where had he gone, that man of woe ? 
Had he found the rest he sought ? 
In haste he went, but with noiseless tread, 
As his bandit life had taught. 

And going downward he met the spring. 
With its mingled sun and showers ; 
But storms of winter he bore within. 
And he did not see the flowers. 

And how did he live from day to day. 
And the ceaseless strain endure ? 
Kind hearts there are that can feel for all. 
And the poor will help the poor. 

In frightened pity, a shepherd girl, 
As she fled o^er the daisied grass, 
Would let the bread from her apron fall 
On the turf where he should pass ; 

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THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

Or workmen, eating their noonday meal 
On a bank beside the way, 
Would give him food, but with outstretched arm. 
And they asked him not to stay. 

He went like a shadow taken shape 
From some vague and awful dream. 
And word of comfort for him was none. 
In his misery so extreme. 

Alas, from himself he could not flee. 
Though he tried, poor haunted man ; 
And he reached the city beside the sea. 
As the Holy Week began.\/ 



215 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 



Part Second 

''T' WAS Sunday morn, and a hundred bells 

X With their sweet and saintly sound 
Were calling the people in to prayer 
From the pleasant hills around, — 

The morn when strivings should end in peace, 
And each wrong forgotten be, 
That Holy Week may its blessing shed 
Upon souls from discord free. 

The streets were bright with a moving throng, 

And before the palace gate, 

With eager eyes and in garments gay, 

Did a crowd expectant wait. 

For the Emperor goes in solemn state. 

With his court, like all the rest. 

To the church with many lamps ablaze. 

Where to-day the palms are blest. 

2\6 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

And stately ladies and timid girls, 

In their modest plain attire, 

From curtained windows are looking down, 

And the shifting scene admire. 

They come, they come, from the cool deep shade 
Of the courtyard^s marble arch, — 
The nobles all in their rich array. 
And the guards with sounding march. 

And stay, the square is as still as death, 
For the Emperor passes now ; 
The girls at the window hold their breath. 
And the people bend and bow. 

But who is this that among them moves 
With that quick and stately pace ? 
What see they all in his rigid look. 
That they shrink and give him place ? 

Too late the guards would have barred the way. 

For he darted swiftly by. 

As hunted creatures, when hard beset. 

To man in their terror fly. 

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THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

And sinking low at the feet of him 
He had come so far to see, 
He waited silent with folded hands, 
Nor asked what his fate should be. 

" Who are you, come in such deep distress, 
And what is the grace you seek ? " 
The Emperor's voice was grave and kind, 
And the stranger tried to speak. 

The golden casket he raised in sight. 
While he bent his eyes for shame ; 
Then said he, ** I am that wicked man,'* 
And he told the dreaded name. 

A shudder fell upon all who heard. 
But the people nearer drew ; 
From mouth to mouth, in a whisper low, 
The name of the bandit flew. 

While he, uplifting those woful eyes. 

In the boldness of despair, 

With ne'er a thought of the crowd who heard. 

His errand did thus declare : 

2J8 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

** I come not here to confess my sins, 
For you know them all too well ; 
My crimes are many and black and great, 
They are more than tongue can tell. 

** But here at your feet my life I lay, 
I have nothing else to give ; 
So now, if it please you, speak the word. 
For I am not fit to live." 

The words came straight from his broken heart 
In such sad and simple style. 
That the Emperor's firm, proud lips were moved 
To a somewhat softened smile. 

For his warlike spirit felt the charm 

Of that savage strength and grace. 

And the strange fierce beauty that lingered still 

In the dark and troubled face. 

So grand of form and so lithe of limb, 
And still in his manhood's prime, 
'T would be a pity for one like him 
To perish before his time. 

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THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

And ^t was well to see him kneeling there, 
Whose terror had filled the land. 
Like a captive tiger, caught and tamed 
By his own imperial hand. 

** Arise,** he said, ** you have nought to fear. 
Take comfort and go your way. 
And may God in heaven my sins forgive, 
As I pardon yours to-day/* 

A murmur rose from the. crowded square. 
At the sound of words like these ; 
For some rejoiced in the mercy shown. 
And others it did not please. 

Some thanked the Lord for the pardoned man. 
And some were to scorn inclined ; 
And motherly women wiped their eyes. 
For the women*s hearts are kind. 

** God bless our Emperor,** many said ; 
But others began to frown. 
And asked, " Will he turn this wild brigand 
Adrift in our peaceful town ? ** 

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THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

No word of thanks did the bandit say. 
But he raised one shining fold 
Of the robe imperial, trailing low 
With its weight of gems and gold. 

The border first to his lips he pressed, 
And then to his heavy heart ; 
Then rose and waited with bended head. 
Till he saw them all depart. 

No eye had he for the gorgeous train,. 
As along the square it passed ; 
One stately presence was all he knew. 
And he watched it till the last. 

A heavy sigh, and he turned away. 
But with slow and weary tread ; 
No rest as yet on the earth for him. 
Not even among the dead. 

He lived, and he bore his burden still. 
But the dumb despair had ceased : 
That word of mercy had brought a change. 
And he now had tears, at least ; 

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THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

He now could pray, though it brought not light, 
And he seemed to ask in vain, 
And his prayer had more of tears than words, 
But it helped him bear the pain. 

And oft in church did they see him kneel 
In some corner all alone. 
And weep till the great hot drops would fall 
On the floor of varied stone. 

And children clung to their mothers* hand. 
When they saw that vision wild, — 
That haggard face, and that wasting form, 
And those lips that never smiled. 

But grief was wearing his life away. 
And for him perhaps *t was well ; 
It was not long on the city street 
That his saddening shadow fell. 

A fever slowly within him burned. 

Till the springs of life were dry. 

And glad he was when they laid him down 

On a hospital bed to die. 

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THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

His heart was broken, his strength was gone, 
He had no more wish to live ; 
He almost hoped that the Lord on high, 
Like the Emperor, might forgive; 

That somewhere down in the peaceful earth 
He should find a refuge yet, 
A place to rest and his eyes to close. 
And the woful past forget. 

He could not lie where the others lay, 
For such gloom around him spread. 
That soon in a chamber far away 
Had they set his friendless bed, 

*T was there he suffered and wept and prayed, 
From the eyes of all concealed : 
Alas ! but it takes a weary time 
For a life like his to yield* 

The grand old hospital where he died 
Was beneath the watchful care 
Of a certain doctor, famed afar 
For his skill and learning rare. 

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THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

But more than learning and more than skill 
Was his heart, so large and kind, 
That knew the trouble and felt the needs 
Of the sick who near him pined. 

With conscience pure had he served the Lord 
From youth till his hair was grey. 
Yet only pity he felt, not scorn. 
For the many feet that stray. 

In troubled scenes had his life been passed ; 
He was used to woe and sin. 
And when men suffered he did not ask 
If their lives had blameless been. 

His part was but to relieve their pain. 
And he helped and soothed and cheered ; 
But most he cared for the stricken man 
Whom the others shunned and feared. 

Each art to save him he tried in vain. 
And it could but useless prove. 
For the poisoned thorn that pierced his heart 
Could no earthly hand remove. 

224 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

When hope had failed, he would kneel and pray, 
And his heart with tears outpour, 
That God in mercy would comfort send 
To that soul in torment sore. 

And though the burden he might not lift, 
He could help its weight to bear ; 
He talked of mercy, of peace to come. 
And he bade him not despair. 

And so, on the last sad night of all, 
*T was the brave, good doctor came 
To watch alone by the bandit's side. 
When he died of grief and shame. 

The spring to summer was wearing on, 
'T was the fairest night in May, 
When sleep to those eyes in mercy came. 
And the deadly strain gave way. 

No candle burned, for the moon was full. 
And the peaceful splendour fell 
Through the open window, lighting all : 
It was like a kind farewell. 

J5 225 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

And scents from the garden floated in, 

And the silent fireflies came, 

And breathed and vanished, and breathed again, 

With their soft mysterious flame. 

The doctor watched with a heavy heart. 
His head on his hand was bowed ; 
He thought how many his prayers had been, 
But they could not lift the cloud. 

*T was over now, there was nothing left 
For his pitying love to do ; 
The worn-out body would rest at last. 
But the guilty soul, — who knew ? 

No more to do but to watch and wait 
Till the failing breath should cease ; 
He longed, as the counted minutes flew. 
For one parting smile of peace. 

He looked : a handkerchief veiled the eyes. 
For they wept until the end, 
And sadly still on the wasted cheek 
Did a few slow drops descend. 

226 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

The peace that oft to the dying comes 
Was to him as yet denied, — 
No sunset lear after stormy day. 
And no brightening ere he died. 

** Alas ! he will go away to-night. 
And without one hopeful sign, 
Away from pity, away from care. 
And from such poor help as mine I ** 

The doctor sighed, but he hoped as well, 
For he said, ** It cannot be 
That the Lord, who died for all, will have 
No mercy for such as he." 

'T was then that sleep on the doctor fell. 
And before him stood revealed. 
In dreaming vision, a wondrous sight. 
From his waking eyes concealed. 

For other watchers were in the room. 
And he knew the ghastly throng 
Of demon spirits, the very same 
Whom the man had served so long. 

227 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

And two were leaning across the bed^ 
And another pressed behind, 
And some in the shadow waiting stood, 
With a chain his soul to bind. 

But angels watched by the bedside too ; 
*T was a strange and solemn scene, — 
The angels here and the demons there. 
And the dying man between. 

The angels looked with a troubled gaze 
On the face consumed with grief. 
And over the pillow bent and swayed. 
As in haste to bring relief. 

And one on the bowed and burdened head 
Did a hand in blessing lay. 
And he said, ** Poor soul, come home with us. 
Where the tears are wiped away.** 

** Not so,** cried one of the demon troop, 
" He is black with every sin ; 
And you may not touch our lawful prey 
That we laboured years to win. 

228 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

** Wc bought his soul, and the price we paid, 
And our part has well been done ; 
We helped him ever from crime to crime, 
Till his buried wealth was won ; 

** And we almost thought him one of us. 
He had so well learned our ways; 
So go, for we do but seek our own, 
And be done with these delays/' 

The angel said, ** He has wept his sin. 
As none ever wept before. 
Has mourned till his very life gave way, 
And what could a man do more ? 

** And our Blessed Lord, who pities all. 
And the sins of all has borne. 
Will never His mercy turn away 
From a heart so bruised and torn/' 

** But how ? and shall mercy be for him 
Who has mercy never shown ? 
Gin his sorrow bring the dead to life. 
Or can tears for blood atone ? 

229 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

" Is he to rest with the angels now, 
Has he done with tears and pain ? 
To-morrow morn he will wish he lay- 
On the hospital bed again ; 

** There is somewhat more to weep for down 
In the place where he must stay I ** 
The demon looked at his fiendish mates; 
And he laughed, and so did they. 

And they gathered close, like hungry wolves, 
In their haste to rend and tear ; 
But they could not touch the helpless head 
While that strong white hand was there. 

Then out of the shadow one came forth, 
'T was a demon great and tall ; 
An iron balance he held on high, 
As he stood before them all. 

And fiercely he to the angels called, 
** Do you dare to claim him still ? 
Then come, for the scales are in my hand. 
We will weigh the good and ill/' 

230 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

And into the nearest scale he threw, • 
As he spoke, a parchment roll, 
With on it a note of every sin 
That had stained the parting souL 

nr was closely written, without, within. 
And the balance downward flew 
And struck the ground with a blow, as though 
It would break the pavement through. 

** He is ours forever/* the demons said, 
** If justice the world controls ; 
For sins so heavy do on him lie, 
They would sink a hundred souls I 

** Come, hasten, angels, the time is short, 
And words are of no avail ; 
Come, bring the note of your friend's good deeds. 
To lay in the empty scale." 

The angels searched, but they searched in vain, 

There was no good deed to bring ; 

In all that ever that hand had done. 

They could find no worthy thing. 

23i 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

A taunting shout from the demons broke, 
And each hard malignant face 
With joy and triumph was all aflame ; 
But the angels held their place, 

Though dimness fell like a passing cloud 
On their pure and holy light ; 
And if ever angel eyes have tears. 
There were some in theirs that night. 

But he who had been the first to speak. 
With a glimmering hope possessed. 
Still sought some good that would turn the scale, 
Though it seemed a useless quest. 

He saw the handkerchief where it lay, 
And he raised it off the bed, 
All wet and clinging, and steeped in tears 
That the dying eyes had shed. 

He turned around, but his face was pale, 
As the last poor chance he tried ; 
He laid it down in the empty scale. 
And he said, ** Let God decide I ** 

232 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

When, lo ! it fell till it touched the earth, 
And the demons stood dismayed ; 
It seemed so little and light a thing. 
But it all his sins outweighed. 

But who shall ever the anger tell 
Of that black and hateful band. 
When most in triumph they felt secure, 
The prey had escaped their hand. 

They stood one moment in speechless rage. 
And then, with a fearful sound 
Of shrieks and curses and rattling chains. 
They vanished beneath the ground. 

Then holy peace on the chamber fell. 

Till it flooded all the air ; 

The angels praised and they thanked the Lord, 

Who so late had heard their prayer. 

And their clouded glory shone again. 

With a clear celestial ray. 

As the trembling soul, which that moment passed. 

They bore in their arms away. 

233 



THE TEARS OF REPENTANCE 

Then through the room, as they took their flight, 
Did a flood of music stream. 
So loud, so sweet, and so close at hand. 
That it waked him from his dream. 

He looked around ; there was nothing stirred 
In the empty, moonlit room. 
Where a faint, sweet odour filled the air 
From the orange-trees in bloom. 

And the notes divine he had thought to hear 
Were only the liquid flow 
Of a nightingale^s song, that came up clear 
From the garden just below. 

Then up from his seat the doctor rose, 
And he stood beside the bed ; 
He knew, when he touched the quiet hand. 
That the poor brigand was dead. 

The handkerchief on the pillow lay. 
But its weary use was o*er. 
And he raised it, heavy and wet with tears. 
From the eyes that could weep no more. 



AUG 28 1900 



